<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Ouija Boy by SunnyBlue</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159531">The Ouija Boy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue'>SunnyBlue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ouija Boy Casefiles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Case Fic, Detectives, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Murder Mystery, Protective Siblings, Tim Drake-centric, let them detect, oooooh, the bats are d e t e c t i v e s, there are ghosts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:34:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Timothy Drake was a stillborn baby. He was born dead, stayed that way for a solid five minutes, and was then resuscitated in the delivery room. He was a child who grew up alone, but for his imaginary friends. He had so many imaginary friends, in fact, that his parents sent him to get evaluated several times over the course of his childhood, which was spent with Tim as the only heartbeat in that house. </p><p>But that didn’t mean he was alone.</p><p>---</p><p>Tim sees dead people. When a Batboys murder investigation is going nowhere, he realizes his only chance at solving the case is to speak to the ghost of one of the victims. He has to reveal his secret to his brothers -- or risk the killer getting away.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd, Jason Todd &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ouija Boy Casefiles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Series that I want to read once they are complete</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Murder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavendercigarettes/gifts">lavendercigarettes</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is campy as hell and I'm having a fucking blast. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!</p><p>This story is technically a prompt fill for rvdhood, but I ended up super off topic while writing it. I can always go back and do others if this one doesn't work!! As it is, though, it's a ton of fun and I highly recommend planning out a murder investigation. Uh, y'know. Just. In your spare time. Please don't kill anyone.</p><p>ALSO! In a few days I'll be heading out on a month-long trip with no internet or cellphones, so I'll be off the grid from posting for a bit. I'll be back at it asap after I get home!</p><p>💛, Blue</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>So this is ridiculous, and Tim doesn’t want to do it at all. Like, he so actively does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to do this. But this Francisco kid is really out here trying to convince him that this is a good idea, and yeah, theoretically it’ll work, but that doesn’t make it </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Timothy Drake was a stillborn baby. He was born dead, stayed that way for a solid five minutes, and was then resuscitated in the delivery room. He was a child who grew up alone, but for his imaginary friends. He had so </span>
  <em>
    <span>many </span>
  </em>
  <span>imaginary friends, in fact, that his parents sent him to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>evaluated </span>
  </em>
  <span>several times over the course of his childhood, which was spent with Tim as the only heartbeat in that house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that didn’t mean he was alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Most ghosts had left the Drake mansion alone, if only because it was kind of depressing, but there were an especially kind few who took it upon themselves to check on him every now and then, make sure he had some semblance of company. And then there were those that liked to wallow in misery and found the depressing atmosphere conducive to that. Those were the ones that just moped around the place all day, rattling light fixtures or staring at walls or whatever.</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>Tim has always been able to see the ghosts, admittedly for a reason he still doesn’t understand. He’s always simply assumed it’s because he had been dead </span><em><span>at</span></em> <em><span>one</span></em> <em><span>point</span></em><span>, and the fact of it being at birth was likely also relevant. He didn’t look into it that much; it was bad enough that he had to see the ghosts all the time, many of them despairing or hateful or in pain. He didn’t need to be going after much more information or interaction. He’d made that call a long time ago.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which is why it’s kinda fucking bad that Francisco is suggesting that he solve this case by talking to the ghost of one of the victims, a little girl no older than six. Tim’s heart hurts seeing a child like this, to see her standing over her own corpse with utter confusion and fear. There’s a few other ghosts milling around this floor of the apartment building, but they all died long before tonight; the girl died just hours ago. He wants to talk to her, he does, but there’s also another issue at the moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Red, you okay?” Nightwing asks, and oh look, here’s that issue now. He and all three of his brothers have found themselves on the trail of a spree killer tonight, but honestly, whoever this is is way too practiced to be classified as a spree killer. These attacks are planned all the way through, entry to exit, and Tim doesn’t like it. This person has killed before and killed often, honing their skills over years and plotting everything out to twelve steps ahead. They make one stop per night, only at night, and kill all the inhabitants of wherever they stop with no discernible pattern. There have been four stops and five total victims prior to tonight, which isn’t a huge amount of data to go on for a killer working off a pattern, and there’s no common thread between the victims — at least not one that Tim’s found yet. They run the gamut of age, race, class, religion, gender, sexuality, appearance, occupation, lifestyle, past experiences, everything. They’re in vastly different parts of the city and none of them are likely to have met each other. The only link so far is that all of the victims have been killed by snapped necks, which is an incredibly gruesome and personal way to kill someone, let alone a young child. Whoever this killer is, they’re one fucked-up son of a bitch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Other than that, there are no clues. None. How this killer managed to get in and out completely unruffled is beyond Tim, especially considering the work they would’ve had to do. There are no fingerprints on the bodies, no footprints, no blood, no DNA, no murder weapon, because the weapon is the killer themself. There aren’t even bruises on the victim’s faces that Tim can use to tell the size of the killer’s hands and make a call about their sex. The violence and strength required to pull this off points to a male, but he can’t rule out a female, so that’s a moot point. There are no signs of a struggle. If Tim didn’t know better, he would say these victims had snapped their </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>necks, because there’s just nothing to suggest another person had ever been here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The suspect leaves no evidence to hint at what their game is. Tim can trace the killer’s path through the room based on probability and statistical analysis, but after he gets to an unlocked window that likely would’ve been the escape point, everything is in the wind. This is a dense part of Gotham, and there’s about fifty different directions the suspect could’ve gone within this building’s block alone. This killer is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and shows no signs of slowing down. Tim knows that unless they get a lucky break very soon, he and his brothers aren’t going to be able to prevent the murder of the next victim. He knows that they likely won’t even be able to solve this case until they get some hard evidence, and there’s no way to be sure that’ll ever even happen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand falls onto his shoulder. “Red Robin?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim looks up at Dick and manages to swallow a sigh before it comes out of his mouth. “Yeah. I’m good.” Dick gives him a skeptical once-over, but apparently decides that Tim is telling the truth, and walks away after giving his shoulder a squeeze. Tim huffs quietly and ducks into an empty bedroom, heading for the far wall and crossing his arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Ouija Boy. You kinda don’t have any options here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim shifts his feet just enough for him to look over his shoulder at the boy standing behind him. He’s known Francisco Rojas for a few years now; they’d met at the scene of a murder, because much like a young Tim Drake, criminal investigation is what this child elects to do with his free time. Apparently he had been obsessed with true crime shows and things during his months in the hospital before he passed away from leukemia four years ago — he’d been bed-ridden to the point where trying to solve cases was just about the only thing he could do. He’s three years younger than Tim, and a pretty nice kid, albeit way too stubborn and brazen for his own good. They aren’t close or anything, but Tim would probably consider them friends. He likes the kid’s boldness and he certainly understands the childhood urge to run off and solve crimes. Besides, Francisco can be a useful source of information, and whether Tim wants him to or not, he shows up everywhere there’s a GCPD squad car. They might as well be coworkers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim raises an eyebrow at the kid behind him, tilts his head just so, because this is how conversations have to go when there are living people around. It’s honestly weird that Francisco is suggesting Tim talk to a victim, considering his ability to just do that himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco folds his arms, leaning casually against the wall. Tim tries not to let it show on his face that he doesn’t look casual at all. “You talk to her, you’ll know what the killer looks like and where he went.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim gives him a withering look and taps the side of his head twice with his index finger. The message is clear: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then maybe do something about it?” Francisco says, scowling. “That’s the standard next step, right? Do something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right, except there are obviously more factors, and Francisco knows that. Tim gives him an unimpressed look and points out the open door of the bedroom — his brothers would’ve heard if he’d closed it — while tilting his head again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, dumbass. Remember them?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco huffs and rolls his eyes. “Dude, do you wanna solve this case or not? You’re not gonna be able to keep the secret forever; why not tell them when it’s helpful?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’ll exile me,” Tim whispers on an inhale, speaking as quietly as physically possible even with his brows slanted in frustration. “No metas in Gotham. Thought you were supposed to be the Inspector.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy scoffs. “Good thing you’re not a meta, then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Batman won’t know the difference. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t even know the difference.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dude, c’mon. They’re your family. They’re not gonna kick you out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco looks like he’s about to reply with, shockingly, another sarcastic comment, when he suddenly takes in a sharp breath and pauses. Tim frowns, turning around to follow his gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little ghost girl is standing in the open doorway, hugging and hiding behind one side of the frame like it’s her mother’s leg. Except her mother is dead in the elevator of this building, killed before she made it home. The girl’s head bobbles a bit more than is natural, and her neck is mottled by dark bruises. There’s a little bow in her hair, pink with white polka-dots, and there’s a picture of Minnie Mouse on her shirt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim shoves down the choking sorrow and despair crawling up his throat, pushes away the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and press his face into his hands. Instead, he swallows hard and forces his lips into as much of a smile as he can, crouching down to be at her level. She startles back a little, and he nods understandingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. My name is Red. What’s your name?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She blinks at him with enormous brown eyes, then turns abruptly to hide her face in the doorframe. Tim gives her time, keeps his distance. After a few moments, she peeks out, and, upon confirming that Tim’s still there, she makes a small shuffle forward, shoving one hand into her mouth. “Bolanle,” she mutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smiles encouragingly. “Bolanle,” he repeats. “That’s a nice name.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her lips purse to one side and she sways deliberately on her feet as she nods. She doesn’t remove her hand from her mouth. “My mama said it’s for good luck.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim wants to break down right here in this bedroom, in this apartment that no longer belongs to anyone. This tiny child, who died before she hardly got to exist, hadn’t been exactly what Tim would call </span>
  <em>
    <span>lucky. </span>
  </em>
  <span>People are going to come in here and pack up her home, people she doesn’t even know, and they’re going to put it on the market and sell it and new people are going to move in, and nobody is going to be around to explain to her why it’s happening, to help her get through it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim glances at Francisco behind him and nods darkly. The kid pauses and studies his face, and then nods back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No more victims. This ends now.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns back to the little girl, smiling calmly. She’s still a good eight feet away from him, and his voice has to raise a little for her to hear him properly. His brothers will probably hear him, too. He feels a pang of fear in his chest for what will happen to him after tonight, but it’s worth it to bring this child peace. He shoves it down along with everything else. “Okay, Bolanle. Do you remember if anybody came into your house today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My mama,” she says, nodding decisively. Then her face pinches. “And a monster man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim forces his eyes not to widen. “I see. Do you remember what the monster man looked like?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before she can speak, a shadow appears in the doorway, closely followed by two more. Tim wants to curse — he thought he’d have more time than this. Bolanle jumps away from the door and closer to Tim, gasping harshly before slapping her hands over her mouth. Her soft brown eyes are blown almost comically wide. Tim isn’t laughing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he tries to soothe. “They’re my friends. They won’t hurt you, either.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, Red? You good there, kid?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim ignores Jason, focusing on calming down the little girl. “Don’t worry. They’re good guys. They protect people against the monster man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tt. There, Nightwing, Red Robin has finally lost his mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now </span>
  </em>
  <span>can I put him out of his misery?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim hears Francisco shift in annoyance. The kid isn’t a huge fan of Damian. He says it’s because the brat always messes up crime scenes, which — okay, valid, even though the brat and Tim have gotten much better this past year or so. “It’s all gonna be okay, Bolanle. You’re safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Red, what are you doing?” Dick asks, sounding more confused than concerned. He takes two steps into the room. The little girl squeaks and cowers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope. No way. Tim is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>letting this slip through his fingers. Nobody else is going to suffer because of this killer. He refuses to let Bolanle be afraid anymore, refuses to take his eyes off her, refuses to turn and talk to his siblings because if he does he might lose her. And that only leaves one option.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a tense inhale, Tim gathers himself together as best he can, collects as much energy as he can possibly spare, and concentrates on pushing it into the room around him. It’s painful, exhausting, makes him tremble with weakness, but he watches with grim satisfaction as Bolanle’s small form flickers and shifts into something translucent, a little girl wrapped in a shaky blue filter, covering her eyes and cowering where she stands. He hears a set of sharp gasps from the doorway, but he ignores them, manages to glance over his shoulder to see a blue version of Francisco leaning un-casually against the wall, scowling at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re an idiot, Ouija Boy. Have I ever told you that?” The kid huffs, voice ringing clearly and solidly through the small room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim snorts despite himself, despite the cold seeping into his bones. “Once or twice,” he croaks out. A moment passes, and both ghosts are still there, still blue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco looks between himself and Bolanle and back to Tim, and suddenly his eyes widen with alarm. “T, let go,” he says urgently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim jerks once, heaving a gasping breath. He’s cold. He’s… he’s really cold. It feels like ice is coursing through his blood, biting into his stomach, clogging his throat. Is it winter already?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tim!” A voice shouts, and Francisco’s blue face is in front of him, one hand on his shoulder and the other roughly lifting his chin. “Tim, you’re killing yourself! You have to let go. Let </span>
  <em>
    <span>go!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something about the sharp command makes Tim’s brain jolt into action, and with a choked, grating gasp the blue surges away and the normal colors return and Tim falls forward through Francisco’s flickering form. He lands hard on the ground and finds himself unable to breathe for a long moment, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to force his lungs to expand, his throat to pull in air. He’s unbelievably cold, lips and fingertips blue, and he’s shivering uncontrollably, harsh tremors wracking his thin frame. There are rapid, garbled voices around him, suddenly, but he can’t pick them apart, can’t decide to whom they belong, and then he’s being rolled onto his side in the recovery position. A hand thumps his back and it must knock something loose because suddenly there’s air in the world and his chest heaves, dragging a breath into his lungs kicking and screaming. He exhales just as violently, body aching, but his newly-oxygenated brain can think again, and it tells him that he needs to slow everything down and get a handle on himself, and then finish questioning Bolanle — shit, he wasn’t supposed to take his eyes off her. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to catch this killer. He feels like there was something else he was supposed to worry about, too, but oh, well. He’ll remember eventually.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim lets his eyes slip closed as he takes careful, steady breaths, working his way through until the hitching completely disappears. He doesn’t waste a minute, flicking his eyes open as soon as he can bear it. Francisco is just inches in front of his face, and despite being trained better, Tim jumps slightly and yelps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Christ!” He huffs, though it comes out as more of a rasp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco scowls darkly. “Fuck off, you moron. You’re an asshole.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“That’s not exactly news, Inspector,” Tim croaks, rubbing his head painfully. He bats at Francisco’s face, but of course his hand goes right through. “Can you back </span><em><span>up?</span></em><span> Jesus.</span> <span>Fine, what dumbass stunt did I pull this time?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco just huffs and moves out of the way. Tim sits up better and turns about ten degrees, only to be met with three very familiar, very still, very shocked faces. He freezes in his tracks, mouth dropping open as if to explain himself, utter fear dancing through his veins. He can’t… they’re gonna kick him out. They’re gonna throw him away like his parents did, like everyone does, and they’re gonna make him give up Red Robin and get out of Gotham and—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mister Red?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks and turns towards the small voice of the child, and all the memories come back in an instant. He feels the terror in his chest turn into resignation and determination on a dime. He’d chosen this. He’d chosen it to help this little girl and he’d do it all again, kicked out or not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shuffles forward a few inches, eyes wide with confusion and concern. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs a tiny laugh, smiling despite himself. “Yeah,” he breathes, trying to get his voice back to normal. “Yeah, I’m alright, kiddo. Don’t worry about me, okay?” She nods slowly and shoves her hand in her mouth. Tim gets his feet under him but doesn’t stand, deciding instead to crouch and walk a couple feet closer to her, trying to get away from the inevitable rejection of his brothers, at least until he’s spoken to her. “Bolanle, can you tell me what the monster man looked like? Do you remember?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chews adamantly on her fingers and stares at the ground, but nods calmly. “Uh-huh. He was big, real big, and he had scary hair on his face.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>A beard, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim’s brain supplies, and he nods for her to continue. “And he had big shoes, like my shoes for the rain.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wearing boots? Likely.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Tim says gently. “Do you remember what his eyes looked like? Were they like yours or like mine?” He asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hums. “Like mine,” she decides. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brown eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Do you remember his skin? Was it more like yours or like mine?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yours,” she says, and Tim nods encouragingly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>White male. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her nose scrunches up. “He had little dots on his face.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim hides his frown, but definitely files that away for later. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Freckles? Acne? Scars? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hums. “Do you remember his hair? Was it shaped more like yours or mine?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her nose scrunches more. Tim feels his heart ache with loss for this child. “He had a hat. But I saw his hair under — it was more like mine, but yellow.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Blond, curly hair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What kind of hat was he wearing, do you know?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods and suddenly takes off, and Tim’s eyes widen as he scrambles to follow her. He passes his brothers with his eyes closed; he knows he might break if he sees them, sees their anger and disappointment, and he can’t afford that right now. He watches Bolanle disappear into another room, and he jogs in after her, noting the tiny bed and dresser, the pink walls, and all the Minnie Mouse memorabilia with aching sorrow. She’s pointing with her free hand — the other remains in her mouth — at something inside the closet, and Tim walks over to see a light purple wooden chest that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>dress up </span>
  </em>
  <span>on it in fancy curly letters. “In there,” she says, and Tim lifts the lid obligingly, mind racing. If the hat the suspect wore is in the dress-up chest, it’s unlikely to just be something normal like a ball cap or a beanie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This one?” He says to her, pulling out a tall top hat. She shakes her head and he notes the Bat presence that appears in the doorway with some trepidation. Still, he repeats the process for a chef’s hat, a sombrero, a newsboy cap, a beret, a fez, and a cowboy hat before he lands on a construction worker’s hard hat, of all things, to which Bolanle responds by clapping her hands excitedly. “This one?” He says again, surprise coloring his tone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again, he hides his frown, this time at the vibrant yellow paint on the hat. “Was it this color?” He looks up from his hands to her from where he’s kneeling at her eye-level. God, she’s just a kid. Barely even a kid — a </span>
  <em>
    <span>toddler</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “It was blue.” Well, that would definitely blend in better. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wearing a blue hard hat. Weird detail… </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim hums. “Alright. And how big was the monster man? Was he bigger than me?” He stands to his full height, but she nods quickly. Before he can think better of it (he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>to solve this case!) he points to the doorway, where Jason is standing to the left of the others with his helmet off. “Was he bigger than him?” Oddly, Jason straightens, as if trying to show his full height, too. But he wouldn’t be helping Tim after he so obviously betrayed them. No, he can’t— he has to keep moving.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bolanle shuts one eye and squints at Jason, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she stretches onto her tip-toes and holds her arm up like it’s a legitimate measurement. “Higher, but not fatter.” Tim manages a genuine smile at that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Likely taller than 6’2; probable lanky build.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Was he by himself?” She nods, and Tim nods back, gesturing at the image of Minnie Mouse. “I like that picture on your shirt. Did the monster man have any of those? Did you see any pictures on his clothes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chews on her fingers and looks at the wall for a moment, then shakes her head. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smiles kindly. “That’s okay. Do you remember his clothes? What color were they?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um… He had blue pants. The kind my mama keeps making me wear, but I don’t like them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim nods. “Can you show me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She walks to the middle drawer of her dresser, which Tim dutifully opens, and points at a folded pair of pants. “Like those.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wearing jeans — oddly casual for his purposes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Do you remember anything else he was wearing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looks around the room and her eyes settle, once again, on Jason, whom she points out very deliberately. “Like his.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim looks just enough to know who she’s pointing at before turning back away. He still can’t— no, focus. Focus. Bolanle comes first. “Like his what? His jacket?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods. “It had big buckles, like my belt. They were scary.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Also wearing a leather jacket. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s stomach clenches with grief. “I know they were, sweetheart, but they’re gone now. You’re safe.” She nods, apparently already aware of that. She’s a sharp one. “Do you remember if the monster man had any pictures on his skin?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes widen and she nods immediately. “A monster,” she says, and Tim tilts his head curiously. She quickly leans on the wall, and the sleeve of her shirt bunches up towards her elbow accordingly. “He went like this and I saw it here,” she says, pointing to her forearm. “It was a monster and it was eating a pirate ship, like Jack Sparrow’s one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim frowns. Eating a pirate ship? What is— oh. Of course. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls out his phone and googles the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>kraken, </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulling up images and turning the screen to Bolanle. “Did the monster look like this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She jumps once and nods quickly. “Yeah! He’s eating the pirate ship!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, he is.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Has a forearm tattoo of a kraken attacking a boat. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He clicks off his phone and puts it back into his belt. “When he left, which way did he go?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On the elevator,” the child says, and that surprises Tim, but it forms an idea in his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Child was the first victim? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He nods and smiles at her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Bolanle, you’re doing great. I just have one more question, and it’s really important, okay? Do your best.” She chews on her hand and nods determinedly, to which Tim can’t help but smile. “Okay. Did the monster man </span>
  <em>
    <span>say </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything? To you, or to your mama, or even just to himself. Do you remember?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She frowns, obviously disgruntled, but hiding no fear behind it. Christ, this kid is tough. She looks thoughtfully at the wall. “He said he’s giving glory to God doing what he did,” she says slowly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Religious — statistics point to Protestant. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“But he said he’s sorry to me that he had to do it. And he said it’s not his fault, and he gotta leave. And he put his hands on my face and then he went out on the elevator.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim takes in a deep, steadying breath, and gives her a pained smile. “Okay. Okay. Thank you, Bolanle. You were really helpful. Now, why don’t we go find your mama?” The little girl </span>
  <em>
    <span>beams, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Tim almost chokes, almost has to turn around and vomit right there in her tiny pink room. He puts his head firmly down and his brothers — if they can still call him that — move aside to let him pass, and he’s thankful for the kindness they can find in their hearts for a traitor. He holds his breath and looks at the ceiling as he passes the small corpse on the floor on the hallway, feeling tears sting at his eyes and something dark and horrible roll in his guts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Outside the apartment and down the hall, there’s a tall woman standing beside the elevator, her posture drawn and lost, her head resting oddly on her shoulder. “Mama!” The little girl shrieks, and dashes across the floor as fast as her little legs will carry her. The woman turns and lifts her head, shocked, but her face quickly turns into aching, pained joy and she kneels down to open her arms for her daughter, who slams into her chest. There are bruises on her neck to match those of the child. Tim wants to turn and run away, grapple out a window and swing to the farthest edge of the city. He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bolanle,” the woman says quietly, holding the tiny girl tightly and pressing a gentle hand to the back of her head. She says something in Swahili that Tim doesn’t quite catch, kissing the top of the toddler’s head. “Oh, my child. I am so sorry I was not there to help you, but I am here now. I love you so much.” The girl mumbles something inaudible, and her mother laughs fondly and hugs her closer. She looks down the hall at Tim, and her eyes widen in understanding. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she mouths.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smiles, tears streaming quietly down his face. “She told me everything I need to find the man who did this. His reign of terror is over, thanks to your daughter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman smiles kindly at him, that maternal look Tim never got the chance to feel on his own skin, and pets her daughter’s curls. “Good. I was unable to see him before I was attacked. I am glad you will be able to end the city’s suffering at his hands. Good luck, child.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The child’s ghost turns and gives him a blinding grin, waving with very little coordination. “Bye Mister Red!” She squeals.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He manages a small chuckle that pierces a hole in his heart and his lungs. “Bye, Bolanle. You be good for your mama.” He nods once more and turns on his heel, walking back into the apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes it exactly one step past the threshold and manages to close the door behind him, and then he breaks. He makes a beeline for the sink and vomits violently over and over again, ripping off his domino and his gloves and his cape and sobbing with each retching heave as the pain in his chest finally boils over and hits him full force. His throat is burned raw and his face feels like it’s too tight, stretched and hot and inescapable. He squeezes his eyes shut and only sees her corpse in the darkness, the body of a child stolen from the world too soon. He sees the pink polka-dot bow in her hair, the fierce disgruntlement on her face, the way her tongue had poked out of her mouth when she had stretched to measure Jason — he sees all of that and he sees her lying dead on the floor, head twisted unnaturally, her face frozen and vacant. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still feels the cold of death in his bones and his stomach and his throat as he collapses against the cabinets below the sink, still feels Francisco’s hands on his too-tight face as he curls into a ball and screams, still feels the tremors of weakness in his frame as his breath once again comes in short pants, fast and shaking and uncontrolled. He can taste the salt of tears on his lips, the way it stings his bitten tongue, and he knows the copper taste that mixes with it. He’s burning and he’s freezing and he barely manages to make it to his knees when he turns and vomits into the sink again. Tim hates this. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. His life is a fucking curse and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For once, he doesn’t move away when someone sits down beside him, leaning him onto their shoulder and wrapping an arm around his back. He doesn’t protest when another presence makes its way to his other side, touching his arm gently before slowly carding gentle fingers through his hair. He doesn’t complain when a small body crawls into his lap and wraps little arms around his torso, pressing the side of their head into his chest and breathing slowly and deliberately enough for him to follow along. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes after far too long, it’s to the sight of Francisco sitting a few feet in front of him with his knees pulled halfway up to his chest. He raises an eyebrow and gives Tim a small, genuine smile when their eyes meet. “Told you they wouldn’t kick you out.” The boy pushes himself to his feet and turns to leave. “You rest up, Tim. I’ll let you know if I find any more evidence.” With a nod, he disappears through the wall. Huh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim sniffles and glances around without moving his head. Dick has pulled him against his side, taking his weight and holding him tightly. Jason is running one hand through Tim’s hair, rubbing gently at his scalp and brushing a thumb across his forehead. Damian is using him as a chair and is hugging him tightly around the middle, curled up like a cat while doing casual breathing exercises that everyone is smart enough not to mention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You with us, little brother?” Dick says, voice soft enough to calm down a cornered animal, which is basically what Tim is at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim exhales shakily. “I’m here,” he croaks, and his throat burns from grief and bile. Jason hums and stands, moving around and turning on the faucet for a moment before returning with a glass of water. He hands it to Tim, who stares at it for a long moment. Jason’s eyebrow quirks worriedly, so Tim takes the glass and downs the water without a word. Damian is still sitting on his lap, still hugging him even though Tim is awake and aware and even though he certainly knows by now what Tim is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes a few more heavy breaths, psyching himself up for another world of pain. A full minute passes in silence; the only sound in the air is the ragged gasping from the center of their huddle. “I’m sorry,” Tim finally breathes, but he must not have prepared himself enough, because in the next second he’s cracking, breaking all over again, fear of what comes next seizing his heart and strangling it, frantic tears welling up again just seconds after he’d gotten them under control. “I’m so sorry, I— please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The arms around his middle tighten, pressing the small face closer to his chest. “Shh, Timmy,” Dick soothes, and oh, god, Tim wants so badly to fall into that voice right now, to let the warmth and light of his big brother wrap around him and comfort him as it always had when he was just starting out, before he even joined the family, before it would’ve hurt so much if he’d been pushed away. “We’re here, we gotcha. It’s gonna be okay. You have nothing to apologize for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“No,” Tim groans miserably. “No, I— I lied, I lied to you, I-I’m sorry</span><em><span>, </span></em><span>I’m so </span><em><span>sorry,</span></em><span> please,</span> <span>I don’t want to leave Gotham, I-I don’t have anywhere else to </span><em><span>go, </span></em><span>I—” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Woah, woah, Babybird, who said anything about leaving Gotham?” Jason’s deep voice drops in smoothly. Damian shifts around enough to pull his head off Tim’s chest, presumably to look at him, but Tim can’t make himself meet the kid’s eyes. Just when they’d been starting to get along, Tim had gone and ruined it. Of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I—” Tim cuts himself off with a gasped sob. “N-no metas in Gotham, not allowed, not— Bruce, he’s gonna kick me out, you’re gonna kick me out— I-I’m not a meta, I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>I am, please, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a long moment of stunned silence wherein Tim can only cry as he braces for the worst.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>is one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>us. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nothing could or would ever change that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Startled, Tim’s head snaps up even as he continues to cry, noting the way that his brothers have suddenly gotten even closer, Jason’s chin resting on his shoulder and Dick’s chin resting on his head, keeping him very well squished between them. Damian is sitting up, his little hands planted firmly on Tim’s chest as he glares at the older boy with the fiercest conviction that Tim has ever seen in his life, even from the likes of Damian Wayne. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Huffing, Damian moves and grabs Tim’s face in both hands, methodically wiping away his tears with a scowl. “Tt. You are a fool, Timothy, if you believe that we will simply abandon you. You are our brother; we do not abandon our own. Besides, you have transgressed far less than Todd and myself, and you still think of us as brothers. Why should we do differently for you?” His scowl turns grumpier and he plunges forward again, wrapping his little arms around Tim’s torso and shoving his face into his chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The gremlin’s right, Timmers,” Jason says, voice light but maintaining that undercurrent of care and concern that makes Tim just want to give in, to have this, to fall into it and let himself believe that it’s real. “B isn’t gonna kick you out. It won’t even cross his mind. But if he tried, he’d have to go through us first, because if he kicks one of us out, he kicks all of us out. We got your back, Babybird.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shockingly, Dick nods, strong and determined, as if he’s in total agreement with going against Bruce’s orders on this one. “Hell yeah, we do. But Christ, Tim, you scared the hell out of us. We thought you were— you were shaking and you couldn’t breathe, and we… we were afraid we’d lost you, little brother.” He squeezes his arm tighter around Tim’s shoulders, tucking him close under his chin. “Thank god that other kid snapped you out of it in time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. This… is not what he’d been expecting. He’d been about 95% sure they were going to exile him on the spot, not sit here and comfort him through his panic, reassure him about his place in the family. He can’t help but suck in a breath. “This… this is real?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick gives him a confused look. “What is?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sniffles. “You really… don’t hate me? You don’t think I betrayed you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All three of his brothers startle, which is honestly a mean feat, considering their lives. “No, Tim, never,” Dick says, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice that makes Tim’s breath catch. “No, we— God, no. Please, please don’t think that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>think that. We could never hate you, Tim. It’s like Dami said: you’re our brother. That means we love you, no matter what. Okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No matter what. He said they love me no matter what.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>More tears begin to slip down his cheeks as it sinks in. They aren’t going to kick him out, they won’t expose his secret, they love him </span>
  <em>
    <span>no matter what. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim sniffles and finally just gives in, letting his body slump with a long night’s worth of exhaustion and emotions, of death trying to crawl inside his heart. The tension in his muscles bleeds away and they ache as they go slack; he’s going to be beyond sore tomorrow, but it’s worth it, everything tonight has been worth it, because he doesn’t have to lie anymore and he doesn’t have to hide a part of himself and he still gets to keep his brothers and his family and Red Robin. He clings to just enough energy to bring his arms up and return Damian’s hug, to lean into Jason’s touch in his hair, to turn his face into the crook of Dick’s neck as his breathing finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>evens out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he whispers to his brothers as he lets his eyes fall closed, as he lets his body rest. “I love you guys, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Motive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What kind of killer wears a blue hard hat? And what kind of asshole doesn't own a cutting board?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>💛, Blue</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tim wakes up in his bed in his apartment, and for a horrible moment he thinks it was all a dream, until he glances over and sees Dick sitting in a chair by his side, legs propped up on the edge of the bed as he reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is a book that Tim would’ve pegged as more to Jason’s tastes. “How long was I out?” He croaks, coughing at the scratchiness of his voice. He’s suddenly extra grateful that his apartment is warded against all ghosts, because he doesn’t know if he could handle seeing any right now. The manor is warded, too, both courtesy of a few favors from one John Constantine. Tim doesn’t even like the guy, but he can’t help but be beyond glad he had enough goodwill to call in those favors. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick looks up and immediately a huge, blinding grin spreads across his face. It’s genuine — Tim has always been able to read people well, but to him Dick in particular is an open book, and Tim knows a genuine Grayson Grin when he sees one. That grin leaps to his eyes, crinkling them and igniting blue irises like neon lights. “Tim! How are you feeling? You were asleep for about thirteen hours — you got pretty knocked out back there. It’s good to see you awake, kiddo. We figured you’d want to be conscious before we told Bruce anything, so we just said we were having a bonding night at your place. Dami and Jay are going through your kitchen. They’ve decided you need more vegetables,” The man babbles on, looking every inch like the excited puppy Tim knows him to be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim can’t stop himself from smiling, and for once, he doesn’t try to. After everything they had done for him last night, his brothers went out of their way to bring him home, to think of how he would want them to handle Bruce, and even to stay at his place until he was awake. Tim is a detective, and a damn good one, too, and right now there’s nothing here but evidence that his brothers were telling the truth, that they won’t kick him out or leave him, that they really do love him no matter what. He had trusted their brotherhood before, and he wouldn’t have stopped being their brother for the world, obviously, but in his head there had always been fine print attached to his own adoption papers. The Wayne family hadn’t signed up for a kid with weird unexplainable powers, so of course they would get rid of him if they ever found out he had them, right?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But apparently not. And apparently Damian and Jason are ransacking Tim’s kitchen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He moves to sit up, gratefully accepting the helping hand that Dick stretches towards him. When he swings his legs over the side of the bed, Dick not-so-subtly checks him over for unnoticed injuries and watches his face for signs of pain. Tim smirks at him </span>
  <em>
    <span>(you’re such a mom)</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Dick retaliates by ruffling his hair with a goofy wink </span>
  <em>
    <span>(yeah I am, so respect your mother). </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick pulls him to his feet and Tim wobbles slightly through a head rush — he’s definitely dehydrated from last night. Speaking of…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dick… thank you,” he says, looking up at his brother. “For yesterday.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brother gives him an odd, somewhat sad smile, and pulls him into a patented Dick Grayson hug. “Don’t mention it, Timmy,” the man says, “that’s what family is for.” He pulls away and brushes a hand through Tim’s hair, frowning playfully as the long strands flop about with the motion. He tugs on a piece. “This is starting to get ridiculous, kiddo.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim scoffs and flips his hair dramatically. “Look who’s talking. Did you or did you not have a mullet on purpose?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick whistles as he starts towards the door, moving slowly so that Tim can get his bearings. “You wound me. I was hip, Timmy. Today’s kids will never know.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank god for that,” Tim says, grinning at Dick’s bright laugh. They emerge into the other room, where Jason and Damian have very much disassembled Tim’s kitchen even while something sweet-smelling cooks in the oven.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am going to implement a ban on energy drinks in the city of Gotham,” Damian is saying when they enter, staring at the nutrition facts on the back of a package of Five-Hour Energy with his nose wrinkled in either disgust or disbelief — Tim can’t tell at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t even have a cutting board,” Jason is mumbling in quiet horror as he stares into a cabinet. “Who the fuck doesn’t have a cutting board?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just cut things on a plate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both boys turn to stare at Tim, unsurprised by his arrival but apparently scandalized for a number of other reasons.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On a </span>
  <em>
    <span>plate?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Timothy, what is the meaning of this?” Damian demands, marching up to Tim and shoving a shot of Five-Hour Energy in his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. “Oh, I pour a few of those into a coffee if I have to pull multiple all-nighters in a row. It tastes nasty, but it gets the job done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“On a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>plate, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“These contain 242 milligrams of caffeine!” Damian huffs, folding his arms scoldingly. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>A few </span>
  </em>
  <span>of them would far exceed the recommended daily maximum intake, you fool! They are being purged.” Damian marches back to the fridge and yanks out the remainder of the package, maintaining unbreaking eye contact with Tim as he dumps the whole thing into the garbage. Tim goes ahead and decides to take the L on this one. Damian seems pleased, so that’s good enough for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay,” Dick placates from the far corner, “We’ll get Tim a cutting board, Jay. We can go shopping later.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason shakes his head, pacing back and forth. Then he stops and turns sharply to Tim. “Do you have PrimeNow?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? Uh, yes, I—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Order a cutting board. Order one. Actually, no, I’ll order it. You won’t be able to tell them apart from a refrigerator. Give me your phone.” Wordlessly, Tim opens his Amazon app and hands Jason his phone, blinking as the man snatches it and sits down right where he’s standing to get to work in the middle of the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You guys have been here before, remember? For meals, too. I know you’ve seen my kitchen. Like, several times,” Tim tries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but previously we ordered food to be delivered or picked up,” Damian says as he pulls on an oven mitt and clicks off his phone timer seconds before it can hit zero. “We never had the misfortune of walking blindly into this abomination of a kitchen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s… fair, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you do.” Damian opens the oven with gusto and a smell that Tim can’t place fills the air. He can’t place it because he’s too busy thinking about how </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely amazing </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is, and wow, he’s a lot hungrier than he’d thought, which his stomach loudly reminds him of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim asks with mild awe, eyes widening with each long, slow breath in through his nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason drops into a chair at the tiny kitchen table and puts Tim’s phone down in front of the other chair, evidently pleased with his cutting board selection. “C’mon, Timbo, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> must’ve had a sticky bun at some point in your life,” he scoffs. Tim blinks as Dick pushes him lightly towards the empty chair, which he settles into while his eyes flicker around in confusion. Jason groans loudly. “Oh my god, you haven’t had one. Goddamn, your parents </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucked.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tim snaps his fingers in agreement like he’s at a poetry slam, which is a thing he isn't even sure actually exists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian sets the steaming pan of sticky buns (apparently) down on a cloth on the table, then turns and grabs plates and forks (and knives and napkins, because they were all raised with Alfred’s values) as Dick pulls over the two stools from the kitchen counter and sets them up along the side of the table. Jason demands that Tim try a bun before anyone else does, so the boy begrudgingly cuts one off from the loaf for his plate and takes a chunk with his fork.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s heaven on Earth. Tim eats six of them. They’re not small. The others are clearly torn between concern for his safety and pride at their ability to get him to eat. Tim literally could not care less, because there is a soft, warm, cinnamon-sugary cake-bread-biscuit-thing in front of him and that’s pretty much all he’s concerned with at the moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to marry these sticky buns,” he says seriously after bun number three. “They are my only true love.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jon frequently says the same about noodles,” Damian huffs, but he’s actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling,</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking distinctly pleased with the praise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” Jason starts casually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Ouija Boy?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim chokes on his sticky bun, remembers how to use his esophagus, and then glares at his brother with narrowed eyes. “Did he fucking say that while you could see him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason and Dick immediately burst out laughing, of course, and Damian does his best to turn his face away to hide a grin. Tim just leans back in his chair and groans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who was that kid?” Dick finally manages with only a minor giggle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re stealing that name, by the way,” Jason adds.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are,” he sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and leans his chin on the same hand when he sets his elbow on the table. “His name’s Francisco Rojas. Died of leukemia about four years ago — he was ten. I met him during the Laurent murder case two years later — ’member that one?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where the vile neighbors attempted to blame the victim’s pit bull, Sasha, and make her the culprit,” Damian growls, and Tim knows that's about as close to an affirmative response as he’s gonna get. The others just eye Damian carefully and nod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, right,” Tim says. “Well, the kid was on the scene, so I went to talk to him and he panicked and introduced himself as </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Inspector. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He shows up on crime scenes and tries to solve cases before the GCPD does. He’s not great at it, but he’s a smart kid and he has the advantage of being invisible, so sometimes he has good information. Mostly he just follows me around trying to learn, like, insider detective tips or whatever. If you see a cop car somewhere, he’s almost definitely there, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, you mean he follows a Bat-detective around trying to figure out what they’re doing?” Jason says in his best surprised voice. “Well, thank god you’ve never done that, Timmers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Trust me, I saw the resemblance,” Tim snorts, “and I did not like it.” Jason just grins and tousles his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said that Rojas died at ten, but the ghost boy we saw looked older,” Damian says, frowning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim is amazed by the kid’s ability to pick up last names without fail. Maybe he has, like, a condition where he forgets first names until that person unlocks a certain Friendship Level. “Right. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span> at ten, but he’s fourteen now. He was twelve when we met.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The others blink. “And, uh. How does that work?” Dick asks, inflection pitching up sharply. “Does your ghost age after you die?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim hums. “It does, but it’s residual, like having to slow down after a race. Aging is a natural process that’s hard to just stop cold. Usually a ghost will continue aging as normal for a little while after the physical body dies, but it slows down incrementally until it just doesn’t happen anymore. Aging happens in the telomeres in your cells, and ghosts don’t have those, so they just gradually remove that function. But children and adolescents grow and age so fast that it takes longer for their ghosts to stop aging than it would for an adult. That’s why Francisco is fourteen. Based on my math, he’ll probably make it to about twenty-five before he stops aging.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Jason huffs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t believe your life is literally the occult and you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>a science nerd.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim cracks and finds himself laughing, loud, bright cackles that fill the air around him and apparently make Dick smile like a proud parent. “I’m not here for </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the occult,” Tim giggles, “I just see the ghosts. That’s plenty enough for me. Oh, and Damian?” The boy looks up at him from his sticky bun, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Tim grins. “All animals go to heaven.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a full second, Damian </span>
  <em>
    <span>beams, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his little face absolutely lighting up — he smiles brighter than Tim has ever seen. A moment later it’s gone, and the brat very seriously schools his face into aloofness. “Tt. Of course they do,” he says, and then pauses to stare at his plate for a beat. “Although it is good to have confirmation.” The kid’s ears turn pink. Tim can’t stop grinning, and by the looks of it, neither can his big brothers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then are heaven and hell real?” Jason asks, raising an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think it depends on what you believe, actually,” Tim says. “For me, it’s just this side and the Other side, and the ghosts I see here are those that can’t cross over, won’t cross over, or have crossed over before and are back for whatever reason. I can’t cross to the Other side, obviously, I— well actually, I can, I just have to be dead. The few times I’ve flatlined I’ve been there for a couple seconds. But I know that animals always go to the Other side because I’ve never seen an animal’s ghost here, but the times I’ve been there, they were all over the place. Like, literally everywhere. But yeah, I think it follows your religion. I’ve seen people hold a coin out to a man and vanish, seen people disappear into the sky— all kinds of shit.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t I remember it?” Jason mumbles, quiet enough that Tim thinks he’s talking to himself until he realizes his brother is looking at him. He steals a glance at Damian, who is also looking at him carefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim shakes his head, bites his lip. “I don’t know. I honestly thought you would. I never knew how to ask, but it was pretty clear that neither of you had any memories.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tim,” Dick says with sudden intensity, “how long have you been trying to figure this out by yourself? When did it start?” The other’s eyes widen and laser-focus on Tim, which is, uh… confusing? He’s not quite sure what they’re getting at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I knew it wasn’t normal pretty early on. Every ghost I talked to told me I shouldn’t be able to see them, and eventually this nice old lady sat me down and explained that they were dead and I must have some kind of ability. I confirmed that, of course. But then later in my life I tested negative for the metagene, so I’m still not sure what exactly it is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Dick says patiently, “but when did it start? When was the first time you saw a ghost?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Tim blinks, furrows his brow, sucks absently at his teeth. “I don’t know. Probably the day I was born. I think it was triggered when they resuscitated me in the hospital.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Woah, woah!” Jason cries, and Tim can only jolt back slightly at the sheer alarm covering each of their faces. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Resuscitated</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Tim says. This is all just so weird. Isn’t this shit, like, in his file? Haven’t they read it? They’re required to know each other’s medical details inside and out in case anyone gets injured in the field. “I was stillborn. They got me back after about five minutes. Did you guys not know that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” Jason crows, looking horrified. Dick’s face has gone white as a sheet (the term </span>
  <em>
    <span>he looks like he’s seen a ghost </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t really work for Tim, somehow) and he’s pressing his hands over his mouth, and Damian is gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn his knuckles and fingertips white, his jaw clenched stiffly. “That shit isn’t in your records! Christ, Tim!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim does a real double-take. “What? How is it not in my records?” He sits up straighter, pulling out his phone and typing through the passwords for his medical file. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing as Dick plucks him from his seat and pulls him into his lap, content to just lean his head against Dick’s shoulder and let his brother hug him and tremble slightly. Even though the stillbirth happened seventeen years ago, before Dick was even aware of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batman’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> existence, let alone Tim’s, it’s still something that theoretically could’ve taken his little brother away from him. Dick is not about that shit, hypothetical or not. Tim gets it. He lets Dick do what he needs to as he finally pulls up his file and skims through it, and sure enough, that detail just isn’t in there. “Oh my god,” Tim mumbles, looking up at Jason, who nods a very clear </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I think my parents had it removed from my record,” Tim says. He scoffs. “They didn’t want people to think I was weak because I’d been born dead.” Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Dick suddenly hugs him </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>tighter, and Tim just sighs and resigns himself to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you have always seen ghosts,” Damian supplies, slowly forcing away the tension in his shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Jason mutters. “Now I get why you always look like you’re about to lose your shit when we watch horror movies.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim winces. “Am I that obvious?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s pretty bad, yeah.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Tim huffs, but can’t stop himself from smiling just thinking about horror movies. Seriously: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Paranormal Activity? </span>
  </em>
  <span>That shit’s hilarious. The kitchen cabinets fly open all at once and the characters decide that ghosts did it, because, uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>reasons</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “They’re so funny, though,” Tim whines, crossing his arms defensively. “I like the stuff that does it right, goes for the full-paranormal route instead of just saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>ghosts are scary</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian nods, looking across the room at Tim’s TV, where his iTunes library is lying out in the open and acting as a screensaver. Jason must’ve tried to watch something earlier. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Twin Peaks, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, X-files, Alien, Get Out, Badlands, Kiss the Girls, Arrival, The Prestige, Rear Window, Clue, Black Mirror, The Sixth Sense, Seven, Gone Girl, Us, A Quiet Place, Citizen Kane, The Twilight Zone…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes light up and his head snaps to the TV. “Oh my god, I need to rewatch </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Twilight Zone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh my god.” He looks around excitedly. “Damian, have you seen it? You need to see it. It’s so good. Oh my god. I need to— wow, okay, the second this case is over you’re all coming over and we’re watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Twilight Zone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick’s nose scrunches up. “Why not just watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>Black Mirror?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cuz it’s not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>same</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You need the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> experience. We’re watching it. Jason, agree with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason looks up. “Apparently I’m agreeing with Tim.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Tim pumps a fist in the air. “It’s settled. We’re watching it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile on his face. “I suppose that would be… acceptable.” Tim grins at him. The light of the TV catches the corner of his eye and he turns instinctively to see what it is, ignoring it when he realizes, but Damian must misinterpret the movement because he frowns and looks around. “Do you see ghosts even now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no. I was just looking at— No, my apartment and the manor are both warded against them,” Tim explains. A smirk appears on his face of its own accord. “I called in a few favors a long time ago.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian looks like he’s about to ask a follow-up question, but Jason sighs heavily and cuts him off. “That’s Constantine. Only that rat bastard would agree to do that without telling B.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ew,” Dick says, wrinkling his nose. He slowly lets Tim disentangle himself from the huh and retreat to his chair. “Does he know, then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That I see ghosts? No.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason whistles lowly. “A no-questions-asked favor from John Constantine. Whatever you did for him must’ve really been something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim shrugs, but his smirk is a little wicked. “I didn’t ask any questions when I pulled his ass out of a coma in an abandoned mental institution in rural Hokkaido. Or when I found him in one of the hanging coffins in Sagada.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s smile grows as the others just blink at him. “When have you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>been </span>
  </em>
  <span>to all these places?” Dick groans after a long moment. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was looking for Constantine,” Tim says with a matter-of-fact shrug. He’s grinning now. “I keep tabs on people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” Jason huffs. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim rolls his eyes and returns his gaze to Damian’s, which is actually mildly impressed, and damn, Tim is kind of proud of that. “Anyway, no, I don’t see any ghosts right now, but yes, I’ve always been able to see them. There are some wandering around outside the door to this apartment right now. And this is Gotham, so they’re everywhere on the streets.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do they get in the way on patrol?” Dick asks with a concerned frown. “Like, can you tell that they’re ghosts?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Tim says, with, y’know, decent optimism. “They’re not— I mean, just by appearances, no; they look exactly like the living. But I can tell because they just seem… I dunno. Cold, I guess. Off. You get pretty good at reading it. Sometimes I don’t even have to read it cuz it’ll be obvious — like they’ll be walking around with one arm torn off and nobody bats an eye.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The air is frozen. Nobody moves — they just stare at him. Tim actually turns over his shoulder to check if something is suddenly behind him, but it’s just his living room. He frowns at his brothers. “What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy hell,” Dick breathes, and suddenly Tim is being scooped into his lap again and squeezed for dear life. “Oh my god.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dick…!” Tim wheezes, doing just best to breathe. He eyes Jason and Damian, who are staring at him with the same mute horror. “Help?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But instead of doing that his brothers, like complete traitors, just stand up and join in on Dick’s hug quest, Jason by looping an arm around Tim’s shoulders and Damian by grumpily wrapping himself around his torso again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is bullshit,” Tim mutters after they’ve all thoroughly trapped him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’ve been seeing that since you were a baby!” Dick cries, sounding absolutely gutted, and it makes Tim’s heart hurt no matter how annoyed he is right now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like they </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>look like that; only the ones who have never crossed over. Besides, you all started pretty young, too, didn’t you?” Tim huffs. “Damian literally started at birth.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is different,” Damian points out, scowling into Tim’s side. Well, Tim can’t see his face, but he’s sure the kid is scowling. He can hear it. “I was given context for all the things I saw. Context of dubious validity, but context nonetheless. As were Richard and Jason. You were given no such context because nobody else saw what you did, so you had to bear it alone. That is a heavy burden whether you believe it or not, Timothy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. When did Damian get so thoughtful? “Oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tt. Indeed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The boy begins extracting himself from the odd embrace. Tim’s side suddenly feels cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you’re even sane, Timbo,” Jason huffs, shaking his head as he, too, pulls away a few feet. “Never mind functional.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t call myself either of those things, but go off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You remain only mildly functional,” Damian supplies helpfully. “Borderline, I would say.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, D.” Tim’s voice is sincere, if distracted by his oldest brother, who is still clinging to him. “Are you, like, good, Dick?” He mumblea, only half sarcastically. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Dick sighs, resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder and pulling him flush against his chest. “I just… it’s so bizarre that you’ve been able to see ghosts the whole time and I never— none of us ever noticed. I guess we wouldn’t have been looking for it, but still. And you knew how to make them visible to us, but that means you’ve done that before, right? Did you get hurt or stop breathing properly and we didn’t know? I just… it’s scary, y’know? Thinking about it.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, during which Tim relaxes further into his hold. A Dick Grayson that’s worried about his little brothers is a force to be reckoned with, so Tim would rather just let him take his time and do what he needs to do. Dick chuckles quietly. “Would it work if I asked you not to do that again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim rolls his eyes, laughing. “I’m gonna have to do it again at some point in my life. It might even be soon, if Bruce doesn’t believe me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” His brothers all shout at once, and Tim jolts slightly, eyes wide with surprise. Hadn’t Dick been joking?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? But I—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Damian declares, pulling his face into a complicated mixture of a pout and a scowl. “That maneuver was reckless and foolish and you will not be repeating it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. “But what if—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Nope. That shit almost killed you, Babybird,” Jason says, voice gruff but eyes soft. “I don’t care what</span> <span>B wants to believe; it’s not worth risking your life over.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll find another way to convince him,” Dick says gently, putting a hand on Tim’s shoulder. It radiates comfort down his spine and he can’t help but lean into the touch. “You’re not getting rid of us that easy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right. Evidence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s chest feels warm, full, and he allows a small, grateful smile to overtake his face as he looks between each of his siblings. “Right,” he mumbles, and then, a little stronger, “Right.” Dick smiles at him and squeezes his shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim pauses for a minute and just blinks, just breathes, letting himself be surrounded by all of this and just sit still for a moment. When it passes, he clambers out of Dick’s hold and up onto his feet, grabbing his laptop, a sketchbook, pencils and markers, and his file on the case, and settling back down in his original chair. “Alright, guys, we have until tonight to figure out who this guy is and catch him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason hums and opens the file, laying it out flat in the middle of the table beside the remaining sticky buns. “The kid give you a good enough description?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and it’s a bit of a weird one. One problem: my evidence and information is totally inadmissible. We can’t use it to prove that whoever we find is our guy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>a ghost told me so </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t hold up so well in court,” Dick mutters, grinning wide. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smirks. “Right. Which is why we need to catch him at work. And to do that, we need to know where he’s gonna be.” Tim pulls a map of Gotham out of the file and uses a fat red marker to pinpoint the location of Bolanle’s apartment, adding a dot to the four that are already there. He glances up to see his brothers paying careful attention, each of them holding a different-colored marker (green for Damian, blue for Dick, orange for Jason), as is their typical setup. Tim nods, turning his head back down before they can see his smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim hums. “Alright, first things first: description.” Damian nods and dutifully grabs the sketchbook from the middle of the table, tapping a pencil against it. He begins to make small, very general marks as Tim speaks, gradually refining the details. “We’re looking for a white male — brown eyes, curly blond hair, beard, likely taller than 6’2 but with a lankier build. Bolanle — uh, the victim I spoke to — called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>the monster man. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She mentioned that he had, and I’m quoting here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>little dots on his face, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which I think we could take to mean freckles, acne, or scars.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick purses his lips to one side. “Yeah, but based on the fact that the killer appears practiced and competent, I would be comfortable ruling out acne — he’s been doing this for long enough that he’s more than likely too old to fit within the standard window for it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim glances at the others, who nod their agreement, and he nods back. “Cool.” He crosses </span>
  <em>
    <span>acne</span>
  </em>
  <span> off the list he’s gradually making inside the file. “That follows. Okay, she described him as wearing boots, jeans, a leather jacket, and a blue hard hat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brothers look up and the scratching of Damian’s pencil pauses. “What?” Jason mutters, frowning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. No idea. But she was pretty clear about that one.” Tim shrugs helplessly, taking a bite of his fifth sticky bun. Jason raises an eyebrow and Tim shrugs again, this time a lot less helplessly. “And then the only other thing about his appearance is that Bolanle saw a tattoo on his forearm — a kraken attacking a boat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian’s pencil clatters to the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s head lifts in unison with his older brothers to look at their youngest, but Damian’s eyes are wide, staring vacantly ahead at the list in front of Tim. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Dami?” Dick says slowly. “You alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian startles and looks up. “Yes, I— yes. I know who this man is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jason says after a moment of stunned silence. “How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian shakes his head and races to grab his phone from where it lays on Tim’s kitchen counter, making his chair screech on the floor when he lands back in it at speed. He scrolls through it for a blurred moment, a light burning in his eyes. “There,” he says, turning his screen to the others to show a picture of a smiling person holding a black cat. Tim frowns, but then Damian zooms in on the background of the image, and there, a bit blurry in the back of the shot, stands a tall, bearded man with curly blond hair. He’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, and as a result, a twisted gray blob is partially visible on his left forearm. Tim’s eyes widen as his brother studies the photo carefully. “I remember him. Some church group came into the Gotham Humane Society while I was volunteering, but this man simply sat there and did no work. I made sure he was fully physically capable of doing the job, and then I rebuked him for his indolence accordingly, but nothing I tried could get him to react. It was as if he could not see or hear me at all. All he did was sit in the cat section and stare at them. But I remember that dumb tattoo — I told him it looked like his mother.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course you did,” Dick sighs tiredly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim ignores him. “You said he was with a church group?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. It was called the Hope Rises Catholic Church of Gotham, and the man’s name was Hal Norman.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The others blink at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian blinks back, brow furrowing defensively. “What? You think me foolish enough not to know the names and histories of those around me? Do you not do the same?” He scoffs and looks away as his cheeks burn pink. “It will be no surprise to me when you all get stabbed in the back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The others glance at each other and shrug. The look they share says </span>
  <em>
    <span>paranoia is a hell of a drug. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim types the name into his database hunter and gets a hit, complete with a satisfying little </span>
  <em>
    <span>ping</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Alright, here. Hal Norman is a 32-year-old from Hoboken — guy moved to Gotham during the last recession, probably for the lower cost of living. He’s currently a night-shift security guard at the Gotham History Museum, but it looks like he’s never held a job for more than six months. Former jobs include a laundromat attendant, an office building custodian, an assistant shop mechanic, an assembly line worker, and construction work with three separate companies. Comments from former employers frequently cite </span>
  <em>
    <span>poor work ethic </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>complaints of coworker harassment </span>
  </em>
  <span>as reasons for firing him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Damn. Well, if I learned anything from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Criminal Minds, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s that anyone who can’t hold down a job is probably a psychopath,” Jason says thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jay, you’ve never held down a job yourself,” Dick argues. Jason just gives him a toothy grin. Dick sighs. “Why do I bother speaking?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No idea.” Jason pops a piece of Tim’s sixth sticky bun into his mouth. “What else we got on our boy here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh… he’s very involved with his church,” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. “Guess what it’s called?” Damian snorts and Tim grins without looking away from his laptop. “Apparently he’s an usher there. The pastor of Hope Rises wrote him a letter of recommendation for one of those jobs… hang on…” Tim makes a couple clicks and opens a not-so-sealed record or two, before clicking his tongue and reading: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hal is calm and reserved, which lends him well to being an extremely diligent student and worker. I often find him already inside the building when I arrive to Hope Rises, doing extra prayer or Bible study on his own time. I am routinely pleased by his dedication to the Lord and impressed by his tireless focus on service to Him. In the three years I’ve known Hal, he has missed neither a service nor a confession, and he often stays well past services to continue his study and prayer.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick’s brow furrows. “So this guy just stays holed up in this church with nobody else there?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“People do that, don’t they? Like, Sunday School or whatever?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s for kids, Jason,” Tim replies, scanning the rest of the letter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is odd that he would be there before the pastor ever arrives,” Damian mumbles, refining some of the lines on his composite sketch even though they have an ID on their suspect. “How would he get in?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good point… I guess there’s four options,” Tim hums, counting on his fingers as he lists them. “He could break in, he could get let in by someone else, the door could already be unlocked, or he could have a key.” He frowns, then, and suddenly gets to typing. The others dutifully ignore that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But nobody’s dumb enough to leave a building unlocked in Gotham,” Dick says. “And if he had broken in, wouldn’t there be a police report? Or at least the pastor wouldn’t speak so highly of his extra study.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason’s eyes narrow as he stares at the table. “Fine, what about getting let in? Somebody with access who isn’t the pastor.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Tim says, leaning back from his computer. He turns the device around, showing his brothers a blurry security camera feed of a man’s figure approaching a small wooden door set into the exterior wall of a stone building. The man pauses in front of it for a moment, then opens it and steps inside. “This is one of the side entrances of the church. Feed is from a telephone pole a block away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Jason says, studying the image carefully. “He’s got a key.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“From the pastor?” Damian says as he looks up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim nods and turns the computer back around. “Probably. It would encourage the </span>
  <em>
    <span>extra study</span>
  </em>
  <span> that the guy seems so pleased with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick’s brow furrows. “You don’t seem too pleased with it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” Tim huffs. “Bolanle told me that before he killed her, Norman said he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>giving glory to God doing what he did.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Apparently he apologized to her, but told her it wasn’t his fault that he had to do it. I get the sense the guy isn’t exactly a normal Catholic. He might not even really follow Catholicism at all. Hell, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t follow the Ten Commandments.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So the killings have something to do with his religious beliefs?” Dick says. “We gotta pay that church a visit. See what he’s doing before-hours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We will, just… give me a second. I’m missing something.” Tim sucks his teeth absently, a habit of his when he’s deep in thought. “He left the apartment on the elevator, but the witness on the third floor confirmed that she was lending eggs to Bolanle’s mother during the time that Norman would’ve been inside the apartment. Which means that he had to have killed Bolanle first and her mother second, but I don’t understand why. If you wanted to track down a particular victim, why risk spending time in the apartment before you know they’re even in there? Unless Bolanle was the target, but I sincerely doubt— oh.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brothers frown. Tim ignores them, starts typing furiously. “Oh?” Jason says, doing his best </span>
  <em>
    <span>we aren’t getting any younger </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the buildings,” Tim says quickly, yanking the map from the center and holding it close enough to touch his nose. “He killed Bolanle first because she was in the apartment — he only killed her mother because she was on the way there. It’s— the victims have nothing in common, right? I’ve run each of them through every database I have and other than living in Gotham, there isn’t anything all five — seven, now — have in common. But I haven’t checked the buildings beyond an initial sweep for easy details.” His fingers fly across the keys, eyes laser-focused and speech picking up speed. He gets a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ping </span>
  </em>
  <span>and checks it out, scrolls slowly down the results list, and suddenly everything grinds to a halt. Tim blinks at the screen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hold up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Are you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>kidding?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just to be sure, Tim inputs another address into the system. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>pings. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim feeds it another, and another, and finally Bolanle’s apartment. And there, towards the bottom, just three words at the end of a long list, they all say the same thing: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fridswid Anabelle Thorpe.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim groans and slumps helplessly against the back of his chair, letting his head loll so that he can stare defeatedly at the ceiling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It had to be her. It just fucking had to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wanna share with the rest of the class, Ouija Boy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim groans again, mockingly this time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jason is </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> gonna start calling him fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ouija Boy </span>
  </em>
  <span>now, so isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> a great addition to today. “You remember learning about the American Witch Trials?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>“Isn’t there a wax museum in Salem for that?” Jason mutters. Tim all forcefully ignores the way Dick’s head snaps up with an excited </span><em><span>ooh! </span></em><span>but</span> <span>Jason furrows his brow. “People died, Dickie.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian rolls his eyes. “In America? Only around twenty people were executed in Salem, more in Hartford. In Europe, however, tens of thousands. Why do you ask of them?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because witch trials happened in small pockets and individual instances all around New England, not just in Salem and Hartford,” Tim explains, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t believe he’s about to tell his brothers about this bullshit. “Including a few right here in New Jersey.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick sighs tiredly. Tim is about to make him way more tired. “Fine. What happened?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Short version? In the mid-1700s there were people settled where Gotham is now and there was this old-ass widow lady who was super rich and owned, like, seven properties. Following?” Tim doesn’t wait for a reply, just rubs at his temples. “And eventually somebody accused her of being a witch because she was too wealthy for a woman or something and she was executed — hanged. In her will, all of her property went to her church, but everyone still thought she was a witch and they couldn’t use it or sell it, so it was just abandoned. A century or so later a bunch of kids start trying to investigate the abandoned buildings and they start a rumor about how if you stay overnight in her </span>
  <em>
    <span>witch room, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or, like, the room in the building where she would allegedly do witch shit, you become a witch yourself. Rumor snowballs, makes the papers, blah blah blah. Right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick’s nose wrinkles and — it’s a pout, actually. He’s pouting. “Are you about to tell me what I think you’re about to tell me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim rests his elbows on the table and lets his face slump into his hands, pulling at his eyes with his fingers and squishing his cheeks, more by design than intention, but it distracts him from the words he’s about to say, so that’s good. “I’m about to tell you that the locations pinned on this map?” He holds up the marked paper and rustles it back and forth, ducking his teeth again. “Yeah, they used to belong to that widow. All of them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Jason groans, dropping his arms onto the table and burying his head into them. “And coincidences aren’t fucking real, are they?” Says his muffled voice from amidst his sleeves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian pauses for an instant, then curses quietly and opens his phone to the photo of Norman. He sighs and turns it around to face Tim, one hand pulling at his hair as he zooms the photo back out to the picture of the person and the pet in their arms. “Black cat,” he says, and god fucking dammit, he’s right. “He wouldn’t stop staring at the cats — many among them were black. This is ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s gonna get worse,” Tim grumbles. “We’re dealing with Ms. Friswid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason’s forehead wrinkles, matching the folds of the fabric surrounding his head. “The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Magic Schoolbus </span>
  </em>
  <span>lady?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is Ms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frizzle, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you moronic raisin,” Damian snaps, and Tim just elects not to question it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s got the iguana,” Dick adds helpfully. Tim doesn’t have to question that one — they’re all well aware of the man’s love for one purveyor of abnormal field trips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. Who’s Ms. Frizzle, Timbo?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Friswid,” Tim corrects. “That’s the widow. Her name is Friswid Anabelle Thorpe and she’s been hanging out in the Narrows with a broken neck since she was executed in 1742.” Tim has to pause for a moment, just long enough to blink and kick himself. “...And that would be why our killer is snapping necks. Fuck. Let me check something…” Tim hits several more keys on his laptop, reads for a minute, and sighs. “Yeah. The Hope Rises Catholic Church used to be called the Church of New Rotherham, which was the church Ms. Friswid left all her property to. Well, the new version is a different congregation, but the building is a restored version of the first and it’s still on the original foundations.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason finally emerges from his cocoon. “How the hell do you know </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She told me. Every time I see her, she tells me. It never ends.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why hasn’t she crossed over?” Dick asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Basically? She’s pissed.” Tim goes back to rubbing at his forehead; it doesn’t ease his headache. “The people who executed her are dead and she doesn’t want to go to the Other side where she might have to see them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason startles. “She’s been on this side for 270 years because she doesn’t want to chance seeing an ex-friend?” He whistles and shakes his head. “Damn. Maybe Dick’s not as much of a drama queen as I thought.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, he is,” Tim confirms, which yields an indignant </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey!</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he strategically ignores, “She’s just the Drama Emperor. The Palpatine of Drama. I cannot stress this enough. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If I’m gonna talk to her, I’ll need a head start.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why must you even speak with her? Seems we have all the information we need.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>do,” Tim says, looking at Damian, “but a court of law won’t. A lot of this is inadmissible — all we have to work with is the connection between the buildings, and it’s flimsy at best. We need to spin this so that it looks like we just discovered the Friswid connection by chance and traced it forward to Hope Rises. That gets us to the church, but once we’re there, we’re stuck with the entire membership when we need just one suspect. Which is why I need </span>
  <em>
    <span>you guys </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go hit up that church for condemning evidence against Hal Norman while </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>distract Friswid.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick’s eyes narrow. “And why does she need distracting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim laughs nervously. Well, y’know. In for a penny. “Um. Because she isn’t really a huge fan of me. Or of the Bats. Because— um. She thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>the real witches? That we pose as people but do wacky shit in secret that she doesn’t understand because she lived in 1742 and technology doesn’t really register. So she doesn’t like us. And if she finds out the three of you are in her church, she, uh. Like. She might kill you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There. That bomb has been dropped. Damage control in 3… 2… 1… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck our lives, honestly,” Jason grumbles, then pushes himself to standing. Dick and Damian follow with varying degrees of wariness. “Alright, let’s do this. Hit me with that Google Maps.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. “Wait, really? Just like that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What else are we supposed to do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim shakes his head. “I-I dunno, I just don’t— like, my plans usually try to avoid me sending you guys to your deaths?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You appear to be confused, Timothy,” Damian says. “You will be distracting her, and thus protecting us from our deaths.” He gives Tim a disapproving glare that kind of makes him feel like he’s swallowed his teeth. “Perhaps you should be mindful of your own death for once.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, she’s less likely to kill me than she is to kill you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Excellent,” Damian says. He begins pulling on his Robin tunic as the others also start suiting up, but he pauses to grin wickedly at Tim. “Then we’ll just have to rely on your Ouija Boy skill.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick squeezes Tim’s shoulder as he walks out, humming a quick </span>
  <em>
    <span>be careful. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Damian pilfers an extra knife from his brother’s kitchen despite the thirty or so that he already has on his person. Jason is desperately trying to mute Google Maps, which is talking to him in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>husky Australian accent. Tim is deciding that maybe he should just start watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gossip Girl. Gossip Girl </span>
  </em>
  <span>probably doesn’t have any ghosts or paranormal shit or anything, and that’s seriously what he needs right now. It’s pretty clear he’s not going to get it for a while here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim looks around and sees all four Robins rolling out of a midsize apartment complex on their various insanely souped-up motorcycles — in broad daylight. He rolls his eyes and revs his engine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Let the drama-queening begin. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Means</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>:)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“This is a dumbass idea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why do you think I brought you along?” Tim says absently. He’s too busy trying not to look suspicious to pay much attention to what he’s saying. Maybe three percent of his mental faculties are currently devoted to language processing, if that. The other ninety-seven percent of his brain is focusing on the task at hand while also running interference on itself. The interaction looks a lot like this:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tim Brain</b>
  <span>: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, we should focus on finding Friswid before the others get to the church. Where do we think she’ll be?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>Lizard Brain: </b>
  <em>
    <span>Lalalalalalalalala Friswid bad, don’t wanna talk to her! No no, no talk to Friswid! </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That is the general tone, anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dude, for real, why am I here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re my distraction,” Tim replies, and it’s true. His plan is to call in the fourteen-year-old ghost Inspector to help him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> his plan. Jesus Christ.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco huffs as he follows Tim along unstable rooftops. At the very least, they’re lucky that nothing ever happens in the Narrows during the daytime. It means they’re safe to speak out loud, and to confront Friswid out loud. Besides, even if someone in the neighborhood </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> see Red Robin speaking to two empty spaces, they’ll more than likely just brush it off as the effects of Fear Toxin. Gotham is fucked like that. “Great. How the hell am I supposed to do that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were a normal kid, right?” Tim says, looking down into an alley. “So act all polite and shit. Like a grandson or whatever. Or better, act like you’re still pretty new to the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>being dead </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing and you’re looking to meet people in the community. That’ll make her happy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid grimaces. “But what if she decides she wants to be like a grandmother-figure to me? Then I’ll have to keep dealing with her and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> about that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t it you who said </span>
  <em>
    <span>do you wanna solve this case or not?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco groans and rubs at his eyes. “Fine. But you owe me for this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah.” Tim huffs a laugh, jumping to the next building over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco follows, jumping and then floating gently and effortlessly from one roof to the other with a smug smirk on his face. He lands and hums. “I still don’t get why this Norman guy did it,” he says, frowning slightly. He paces along the perimeter of the roof. “Why does he care so much if Friswid used to own these buildings?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He hates witches.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Come again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim nods with a knowing roll of his eyes. “Think about it. The obsession with black cats, the early studying, the apology to Bolanle, insisting that it isn’t his fault? The old rumor that if you stay in a witch’s room you become a witch? The guy thinks that everyone who lives in a witch’s room — the places in Friswid’s buildings where those blueprints match — needs to die. It’s probably some show of dedication to his church or to God. He believes that he’ll purge all the witches and give glory to God.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So why doesn’t Friswid stop him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t care about her properties or the murders,” Tim explains. “All she cares about is her church and her revenge that she never got. She won’t stop him because it doesn’t matter to her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which means it has to be us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim winces. “It does, unfortunately.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco huffs. “Fine. What part are your brothers playing in all this? Why are you and I the ones distracting her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re ransacking a church.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco sighs heavily. “Of course they are. I guess sin doesn’t mean a lot to a Bat, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim grins. “I’m Jewish.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That startles a laugh out of his friend. “Fair. At least tell me you aren’t destroying, like, one of the historic churches of Gotham.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s one called Hope Rises over on the East side.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco’s eyes widen and he grinds to a halt. “No way! Seriously?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim pauses and frowns, turns to meet his friend’s shocked gaze. “Yeah? Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s my church!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks. “Fucking pardon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid laughs and waves him off. “That’s the church my Mamá used to drag me to every Sunday. I was never super into the religion thing, but it made her happy, so I went.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And just… what the fuck? “Are you telling me we’re looking for a witch hunter at your old church?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Guess so.” Francisco frowns. “Wait, I don’t want that guy going around killing people on behalf of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>church. We gotta go kick his ass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs a laugh. The kid always picks the weirdest shit to focus on. “We’re on our way right now, aren’t we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco huffs and resumes moving alongside Tim. “How much time do your brothers need?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As much as we can give them, or until they signal me that they’re done. Whichever comes first.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really think we won’t be able to hold her off?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Honestly?” Tim murmurs. He turns to his friend, face drawn in concern as he bites down on his lip. “I have no idea. We may not even need to be doing this, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, considering how much it meant to her in life, it’s more than likely that she can tell who’s moving in and out of her church as a ghost. That sort of thing happens all the time,” Francisco says with a frown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Tim says, peering into another alley. “And that’s why I’m not sure how well we’ll be able to distract her. But it’s definitely worth a shot.” Tim’s gaze sweeps across the street and catches a flash of a green dress, a flicker of gray eyes in another alley. He takes a slow breath, in and out, and nods. “I see her. Follow me, and play along. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> mention the church</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” In the next second, he’s climbing down the nearest fire escape, doing his best not to rush for fear of setting the widow on edge. Francisco appears at his side, trying to look nervous, or maybe he actually is nervous, but either way it doesn’t matter; both will serve them well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They walk leisurely across the cracked road and make to pass the other alley very casually, but luckily Friswid spots Tim early on and calls him over, a pleased if haughty ring to her voice. “Sir Red Robin,” She greets, smiling. “I dare say I haven’t seen you around lately! How long </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>it been since we met last?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Miss Friswid,” Tim says, inclining his head politely. He slides easily into a slow, rolling tone, matching her stance and verbiage perfectly. It’s one of his talents. “I believe it’s been over a month. Forgive me; I’ve been terribly busy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughs, a snobbish, fabricated sound, and swats at his arm even though her hand goes straight through. “Oh, worry not, dear boy — I know well how occupied your… </span>
  <em>
    <span>people </span>
  </em>
  <span>keep you.” A very high-society way of showing her disapproval of the Bats; Tim’s more used to that same tone and implication being directed at the Waynes at galas and things, but he knows how to handle it here, too. “And what have been some of your latest </span>
  <em>
    <span>adventures?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She’s not trying to be rude, she isn’t, but this is what she knows, and she’s gonna stick to it. That’s fine by Tim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid they’ve been rather dull lately,” he says, which is a total lie, but he’d rather not get into the truth with her. The truth, of course, is that the </span>
  <em>
    <span>adventure </span>
  </em>
  <span>previous to this current case involved Tim, Jason, a bunch of sentient plant aliens, and the produce section of a grocery store. It wasn’t all that complicated: the aliens looked at the produce section and saw their own personal slaughterhouse. Still, though. Not dull. “Just a number of small-time miscreants and delinquents and the like. You understand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The widow laughs again. “I’m afraid it is somewhat beyond me,” she says, “but such is life.” She turns to Francisco as if just noticing his presence for the first time. “My! And who is this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Distraction is go, </span>
  </em>
  <span>says the part of Tim’s brain that isn’t lizard-y but nonetheless insists on being lame. He smiles wide and gestures at his friend. “This is Francisco. He’s new around here, if you catch my meaning,” he says pointedly, even though there’s no need for or benefit from secrecy right now. “I thought I would show him around town, introduce him to some folks I know. It’s quite difficult to get acclimated, as I’m sure you remember, and I thought a few friends might help him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Red Robin,” Friswid coos, “You’re such a sweet boy.” Tim fights back the stupid-ass grin he wants to shove at his friend and instead tilts his head gratefully and backs off a bit as she shifts her focus. “Now, Francisco, is it?” The boy nods nervously, extending a tentative hand to shake hers. She takes it; she had long since learned the custom from watching the living. “It is nice to meet you, young man. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you pass away?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, not at all, Miss,” Francisco says, voice small, and at this point Tim is fully aware that he’s faking all of this, but damn, the kid is a pretty good actor. “It was an illness for me. I was in hospital for a long time, and now I’m here, but I’m a little nervous, you see…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim tunes out as the kid keeps talking, but nods appropriately and chimes in with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmm </span>
  </em>
  <span>or a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mhmm </span>
  </em>
  <span>whenever necessary. He’s more focused on what happens </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, and— yeah, he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he needs to not lose control of this moment, but he’s a creature of habit and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>plans, </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay? And they kind of need a plan, because unless his brothers find a note in Norman’s handwriting that lists the address for tonight’s attack, they’re gonna have to figure out where his next hit is. He has to start working, start laying things out, because if everything isn’t in place by sundown, they’re gonna wind up with more victims.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim suppresses a shudder, remembering the way Bolanle had hidden behind the door frame before entering the bedroom, the way she had cowered and shaken and pressed her hands to her eyes, the way she had bolted on too-short legs down the hallway to meet her mother. Remembering the purple dress-up chest in her closet. It was packed full; she must’ve loved playing pretend, acting out a future where she could be anything, where she could grow up how she wanted and change the world in her own way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that won’t happen, because her future has already come to pass. Those possibilities are gone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything has to be in place by sundown. Tim </span>
  <em>
    <span>will not </span>
  </em>
  <span>allow more victims.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After his brothers are done at the church, they’ll have to reconvene back at Tim’s place to go over what they’ve got. This is all a little too dependent on what they find for his liking, but ultimately if worse comes to worst, Tim can always fabricate and plant evidence. It’s definitely not his favorite route to take, but if it gets this guy put away, he’s not too worried about the morality of fake security cam footage. Red Robin can cross lines that Robin can’t, after all, and Tim isn’t Robin anymore. He might as well use that freedom to fuck up a homicidal maniac.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’ll need to run a search for all the buildings in Gotham that Friswid left to the church in her will. The four of them will probably have to split up and cover them all, maybe move between or surveil them all night if there’s more buildings than there are Bats. Norman must have some way of finding the locations — is that something Tim needs to look into? If Norman is only working with standard tech, he would’ve had to do some serious digging to come up with the details that he seems to have. Friswid’s records aren’t the kind of thing that pop up with a google search, and as far as Tim knows her will was resealed. Norman would need to be neck-deep in the Gotham Library newspaper archives to even know about the rumor that came a hundred years after the witch trial, but that rumor seems to be the basis of a lot of his work, so clearly he found it somewhere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Actually, wait. How the hell would Norman have even gotten all this information? It’s definitely a lot for one guy with no resources to access. Maybe his job at the history museum? But no, they don’t keep archives and there hasn’t ever been a witch trials exhibit there. None of his previous jobs would’ve lent themselves to it, either. Tim supposed he could’ve found it at the church during his early mornings, if for some reason they kept those records there, but why would they? There’s no reason to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“—and I think Red Robin agrees. Don’t you, pal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim doesn’t let his eyes widen, doesn’t let himself smirk at the pointed annoyance in Francisco’s voice. Instead, all he says is, “Yes, of course,” with a pleasant smile back at the ghosts. Francisco’s eye twitches ever so slightly. Tim shows no indication that he wants to laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well, that’s wonderful!” Friswid is gushing, which probably means she thinks that whatever they’re talking about is average at best. “I’m glad you both enjoyed the trip. I shall have to visit myself sometime. What did you call it? Denny’s? Ah! I shall have to visit.” She doesn’t sound like she wants to visit at all, which, if they actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> talking about Denny’s, Tim can’t say he blames her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A </span>
  <em>
    <span>ping </span>
  </em>
  <span>comes through his comm, and Tim gets </span>
  <em>
    <span>this close </span>
  </em>
  <span>to sighing with relief. He casually reaches his left arm across his body to fix his belt and pretends to startle, eyes widening deliberately at his watch, which reads 5:09 PM. “Oh, goodness, look at the time!” Okay, yeah, it’s a lame excuse, but the widow will buy it and that’s all Tim needs right now. “We were supposed to meet a friend of mine ten minutes ago! Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Miss Friswid, but we’ll have to catch up again another time. Do enjoy the rest of your evening!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, of course!” The woman says, grinning without teeth. “Of course, of course. It was lovely to see you, Red Robin. And it was wonderful to meet you, Francisco!” Her face turns a little softer, a little kinder. “This will get easier, young man. It just takes time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco gives her the closest thing to a real smile he can make up. “Thank you, Miss Friswid. It was nice to meet you, as well.” They bid their final goodbyes and continue walking leisurely down the street in the Narrows. They make it two blocks before Tim can’t stand it anymore and darts into another alley, shooting up a fire escape and onto a rooftop. He jumps three more buildings, then lets himself rest against a roof access door, laughing like a moron. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco approaches from the side and scowls at him, folding his arms. “What’s so funny?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim grins and looks up. “Did you tell her we went on a vacation to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Denny’s?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No!” The boy huffs, cheeks tinting pink. “She asked what we had done together so I told her we </span>
  <em>
    <span>went </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Denny’s! </span>
  <em>
    <span>She’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one who decided it’s a resort or something!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim can’t help it; the Robin cackle bursts out of him and he sinks to the floor, clutching at his stomach and squeezing his eyes closed. He’d have to remember to take Francisco back to Denny’s after this whole thing is over — the kid had gotten a kick out of the 3:00 AM people-watching.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim giggles out the rest of his laughter and pushes himself to his feet. “Alright, fine. C’mon, Inspector, I gotta get back. We’re taking this guy down tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco nods determinedly. “Good. I’ll let you all take care of it — I don’t have any new evidence and the GCPD have a drug bust planned for tonight that I’d like to be at. Just… be careful, yeah? You’re pretty killable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m aware,” Tim says with a grin, but he nods solemnly. “I will be. Enjoy the drug bust, kid.” Tim has long since realized what a weird fucking relationship this is. He’s pretty far past caring at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks. Good luck, T.” Francisco throws him one last smirk and vanishes where he stands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs as he drops down to street level and gets back on his motorcycle. “Drama queen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did it go with the witch lady?” Dick asks as Tim climbs back into his living room through the window. His brother squeezes his shoulder with a fond smile, and the familiarity of the touch makes Tim’s chest feel warm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not sure. I zoned out for most of it.” Tim grins. “I made Francisco be my distraction. He played the part of </span>
  <em>
    <span>confused ghost child </span>
  </em>
  <span>well. How was the church?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There wasn’t exactly a smoking gun,” Dick says, laughing slightly at the anecdote and leading Tim into the kitchen, “but we did find these.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim frowns, peeling off his domino and approaching the kitchen table, where there’s a stack of books teetering precariously. He dismantles the tower and spreads the books out to see their covers — there are eleven of them, ranging from modern paperback memoirs to ancient-looking, leather-bound volumes of coarse pages. What they have in common, though, is that they’re all about the same thing: witchcraft. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’d you get these?” Tim asks, leafing carefully through the largest book, one of the leather ones that looks like it’s about to disintegrate. It’s labeled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Witch Bible, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Tim is gonna go ahead and take at face value. “You get a warrant?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t need one,” Jason says. He’s using a knife to open an Amazon box that looks suspiciously cutting board-sized. “Poole gave them to us himself.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Poole? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim squints, trying to remember where he’s heard that name before, and his eyebrows lift suddenly when he remembers a signature he’d glanced over at the bottom of a letter. He blinks at Jason. “You guys met the pastor?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Guy was pretty freaked out by the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>your buddy thinks he’s a witch hunter </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick nods and picks up one of the books, which looks like a how-to manual on witchcraft. “He seemed like a nice enough dude. He confirmed that he gave Norman a key and showed us the space he uses to study in the mornings. We found the books in a hidden safe under the floor.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim begins checking the indexes of each book, flipping through specific chapters, confusion growing in his mind. None of these have anything to do with Friswid. With witches, sure, but not with Friswid. So how the hell did Norman find her properties? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Poole encouraged us to take them,” Damian adds as he inspects the cutting board that Jason has removed from the Amazon box. “He said he was unaware that Norman had them. And that the church would have to get the loose floorboards fixed.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Weird.” Tim carefully sets down the book and looks up at Dick. “And you guys had your mask cameras on? Didn’t lead him to point out Norman?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yep and yep,” Dick says. “We mentioned we had seen that somebody had early access to the building on the security cams, and he took us to Norman from there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All by-the-book, Timmy,” Jason says with a grin, slicing a leftover sticky bun as if the cutting board needed a test drive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim wrinkles his brow, but decides not to comment. “Alright, good. That’s evidence enough to explain how we found Norman. Now all we need is to catch him.” He moves the books enough to sit down at the table in front of his computer, typing rapidly as he launches another search. “Looking for the rest of Friswid’s properties,” he explains when Dick gives him a look. “We need to know where he’s gonna be tonight.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something still isn’t sitting right with Tim. From what they’ve gathered, there’s no way that Norman would be able to have the whole story, no reason he would even know of Friswid or her rumor enough to go after the people living in her witch rooms. If these books were all he had to work with, how could he have possibly known?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His computer makes a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ping </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound and Tim has to shove that thought away for the moment, because he has search results to go over. He huffs and raises an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t we in luck.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kinda sounds like we fucking aren’t when you say it like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim ignores Jason and pulls their map of Gotham closer as he hunts for his red marker. He finds it between two books and gets to work pin-pointing locations. “So there are four more buildings in the city previously owned by a Friswid Anabelle Thorpe. One of them is a bed-and-breakfast and the other three are apartment buildings, which means we’re gonna have to go through a bunch of super old blueprints until we figure out which individual apartment or room lines up with whatever people at the time thought was her </span>
  <em>
    <span>witch room.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It also means getting separated,” Dick says with a mildly disapproving pout. They all know how much he hates splitting up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We have few options, Richard, and little time.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dick sighs heavily and leans back on the kitchen counter. “I know, I know. Fine, we’ll each take one, both for blueprint research and for the stakeout. But we’re setting up a backup system — if you have the right place, you ping everyone else right away. Nobody goes up against the freaky witch hunt man alone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, mom,” Jason snorts, but he puts the cleaned cutting board in a cabinet and turns to sit down at the table, followed closely by Damian.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim stands distractedly and moves to his spare linen closet, which has about ten near-invisible locks on it even though it’s inside an already hyper-secure apartment. He goes through all the biometrics and pulls the door open to reveal a room full of servers in the center and, lining the walls, shelves upon shelves of various motherboards, wires, and drives. This, of course, is just the portion of his stuff that he likes to keep close by — he has a few warehouses scattered around the world that look a lot like this, too. Tim might be a tech hoarder. He pulls three laptops from a stack of extras and carries them to the kitchen, re-engaging all the locks on the door as he hands them out to his brothers. They don’t even look surprised. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, guys,” Tim says on an exhale, putting the map in the center of the table to let them each pick their addresses. “We’ve got about two hours until sundown.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then we get to punch a murderer?” Jason asks with mock hope in his voice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim grins and nods, starting his search. “And then we get to punch a murderer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . .</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jason had decided to take the bed-and-breakfast, on the basis that they might give him a pastry or something to be friendly. He’s the only one still riding with Tim now; Dick and Damian picked the two apartment buildings that were near each other (</span>
  <em>
    <span>in case I need backup, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick had said, even though they’d all known it was in case </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damian </span>
  </em>
  <span>needs backup), and they had already peeled off onto a different road to make their way there. Tim’s stakeout happens to be the farthest away from his own apartment, which isn’t actually happenstance at all but rather a symptom of being the last person to choose a location. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You good, Babybird?” Jason shouts through the comm in his hood. He’s lucky that he doesn’t have to wear a motorcycle helmet because of that thing. Hell, maybe Red Robin should start wearing a helmet — that seems a lot safer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” Tim confirms, swallowing. “I’m just…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>nervous, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants to say, because he needs this to go right. When he has all the details, his plans almost never fail, but… but something is bugging him and he can’t put his finger on it. He still feels like he’s missing something. But he can’t miss anything, not this time, because he made a promise to a little girl, and he fully intends to keep it. “I just really want to close this case,” is what he settles on, and when Jason speaks again Tim is relieved to hear less worry in his tone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I getcha, Timmers. Good luck.” With that, Jason’s bike disappears around a turn that he takes way too quickly for literally no reason. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Moron, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim thinks, but he lets it go, because there’s just too much going on in his brain right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why is he so nervous? Why does he feel like he’s not seeing the whole picture? What else is there? He’s gone through all the clues a hundred times, worked them into a million scenarios over and over again in his head, and every time, everything lines up. The description, the cats, Hal Norman, the church, Friswid, the witch trials, the rumor — everything lines up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything but the origins, because they just don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>exist. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Why? Is it even possible that Norman stumbled across all of this information on his own?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Coincidences aren’t fucking real, right? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe the Ghost of Jason Past is right. Maybe Tim didn’t look into this well enough — maybe he’s sending his family into a death trap and they don’t even know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the same time, what the hell else is there? Tim has gone through </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>on this guy, including an interview with a ghost and testimony from Damian on how he acted. His brothers even saw his freaky workstation inside the church. There can’t be anything else, right? There can’t. Tim’s got this. He’s got it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s got it. He’s gonna follow through on that promise no matter what.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Red Robin pulls up to the back parking garage of the apartment building on his GPS, and damn, this place is seedy at best. It’s definitely off the beaten path, tucked away in an emptier section of Gotham between the harbor and Crime Alley. The building is squat and decrepit, chunks of brick falling away and withered ivy shrink-wrapped to the exterior walls. Most of the windows are at least half boarded-up, grainy and opaque with some kind of grime or smog, and if not they’re missing panes entirely with nothing to cover the gaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim would make a joke about the place being haunted, but, well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes his way into the building — there’s a padlock on an iron gate at the entrance that he picks in seconds, but he makes sure to snap it closed again behind him. He doesn’t want anybody living here to be any less secure than they already are. He makes a mental note to have WE pay to fix up the building, at the very least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes his way through the empty lobby and into the stairwell, beginning to climb two at a time. He’s got a clear destination here — apartment 307, currently being rented by a young couple who’ve been kicked out by their parents. Their names are Maria Alvaro and Jessica Gideon, and at the moment, they’re set to be the eventual victims of a serial killer, whether that be tonight or later on. Unless, of course, Tim has anything to do with it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He arrives on the third floor and hurried down the hallway, and—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the door to 307 is standing open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. Shit shit shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim darts inside without a second thought. The place is tiny and rickety, maybe two rooms and about on par with the rest of the building, but there are signs of life here, little hints of people existing in this space: a stack of Blu-ray DVDs beside the ratty sofa, a half-full mug of tea abandoned in the kitchen (which is the same room as the living room), a dried flower pinned to the wall. This is somebody’s home. He’s not going to let it be emptied; he’s not going to let himself be too late. He’s about to call out to the couple, stealth be damned, when he notices a figure slumped over on the floor and propped against a wall, and his mind goes blank except for one thought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steps over carefully and kneels down beside the figure, reaches out to take a pulse, but suddenly piercing blue eyes fly open and there’s a gasp and a jolt and a yelp, and Tim has to work damage control faster than he’d like to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mister Poole!” Tim calls, hands held up placatingly. He has no idea why or how the fuck the Hope Rises pastor is here, but there’s a small gash on his head and he’s clearly disoriented, so Tim will have to think about that later. “Sir! It’s okay, I’m here to help. Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pastor takes in several shaking breaths and manages to sit up of his own esteem, eyes surprisingly focused considering the apparent blow to his head. He’s sixty years old, according to his bio on the church’s website, but he looks substantially younger. His skin is largely unwrinkled and his body looks unhindered, like he can move nimbly without issue. Actually, he’s pretty fit, and he’s big, bigger than expected — the guy is built a lot like Jason, or, in technical terms, a lot like a brick shithouse. Tim estimates he’s 6’2 and at least 200 pounds, which… like, okay, that’s fine, but it’s definitely kind of weird for a pastor. “Oh, goodness… what happened?” The man says. His voice is high </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-pitched and dense, like he’s trying to make you read something between lines, like you can never fully grasp what he’s trying to tell you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was gonna ask you, sir,” Tim replies, trying not to let his tone turn sarcastic. He helps the man sit up a little straighter. “Do you remember how you got here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole blinks. “I…” He pauses for a long moment, wide eyes flickering around, before his face suddenly goes pale in the dim light, wide mouth gaping open. “Hal…” he whispers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyebrows lift under his domino. “Hal Norman?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” the pastor says urgently, grabbing Tim’s arm in a shaky grip. “I… your colleagues, they found strange books beneath— beneath the floor in Hal’s study space, a-and I thought… I tried to ask him about it, about what they were, but he said…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A frown overtakes Tim's face as the main trails off, staring distantly into space. “Mister Poole? What did he say?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole’s gaze flickers up to meet the lenses of Tim’s domino, but it feels like he’s looking straight through him, piercing barriers that Tim has set up with the utmost care. There’s something in his eyes that Tim doesn’t understand. He can’t even describe it, can’t even get a vague sense of what it might mean, and that… bothers him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He said God was going to be so proud of him,” the pastor breathes, and Tim wants to move but can’t, is pinned like an insect under this man’s stare. “He said I should come see, and then… I think he hit me?” The man lightly touches the gash on his head with a soft hiss. “And then I… well, and then you were here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim lets his lips press into a bloodless line, an old nervous habit of his, and nods firmly, finally able to tear his eyes away once the pastor blinks. “Okay. You stay put for a second, I’m gonna take a look around.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right,” the man says shakily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim gets to his feet without hesitation — something about Poole, whatever it is in his eyes, makes him uncomfortable enough that he doesn’t want to hang around. He begins by inspecting the kitchen/living room, going through the torn couch cushions and opening all the cabinets silently as he pieces things together in his head. It sounds like Norman kidnapped Poole after the confrontation — brought him here to make him some kind of witness, but he seems to be the only person in the apartment. So where’s the couple? Where’s Norman? Why would Norman bring the pastor here just to ditch him and run? He would want a witness to his perceived acts of God, not a witness to his crimes that he then leaves alive and completely open for questioning. If the killer wanted a witness, then Poole would have to be watching him work, but the apartment is dead silent except for the man in the kitchen — Norman isn’t here. So how can Poole be a witness to something that isn’t happening?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t add up. Tim is still missing something. But what? What else is there? Where’s—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim pulls open the door to the bedroom and freezes in his tracks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been wrong. Norman </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s here. Lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His head is twisted the wrong way. Brown eyes open, blank, staring at Tim but not seeing him. Back to Tim, but eyes facing him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s wrong. It’s very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong, more wrong than any of the victims have looked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instinctively, Tim’s hand drifts up and taps twice at his comm. He hears the ping that goes out to his brothers with some relief, but it’s passing, slippery, because he really has other shit to worry about right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t make sense. Norman isn’t supposed to be a victim — he’s supposed to be the killer. Something is missing, missing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing, what is missing—</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tough luck, witch boy,” hums a dense, crackling voice, followed by a soft whistling through the air. Something heavy connects with the side of Tim’s head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The world goes black. He never feels himself hit the ground.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Monster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>:))</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tim comes to without opening his eyes. For one, that’s in the Bats’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>wake up in unknown circumstances </span>
  </em>
  <span>handbook. Also, though, his head is throbbing, pain radiating from a large area above his left ear, and it’s pinching the nerves behind his eyes and twisting. Even more annoying, there’s something wet running into his face from the way his head is bowed forward, something hot and sticky that feels like it’s sealing his eyes shut. None of this makes him really want to open them. He’ll take stock of his situation for now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s pressure against his back, sprawling and cold, pressure beneath his feet, but more concerning is the pressure tightly binding his hands behind his back, taught around his wrists and expertly secured, likely inescapable even if he could think clearly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then, of course, there’s whatever’s around his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His head is heavy, too heavy to lift at the moment, but he can feel a coarse material biting viciously into his skin, straining his airways and making his breaths come in wheezing pants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tough luck, witch boy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And everything snaps into place. The killings, Friswid’s buildings, Norman’s corpse, all the information that he shouldn’t have been able to find. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he was missing, that he brushed aside, running headlong into a trap because he let his emotions get the better of him, let himself fall too far into the need to solve this case. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, he’s certainly paying the price for it now. He’s about to be hanged, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re awake, little </span>
  <em>
    <span>witch</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s nose wrinkles at the utter disgust in the last word. How had he missed this? Is the guy just that good of an actor? Clearly this dude is unhinged if he’s walking around thinking random kids are witches. How had Tim let his guard down, let him get that hit in? He knows better than this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They had gotten played. They had gotten very, very played. Like, more than they have in a long time. But of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>the pastor would have access to Friswid’s records — he’s in charge of the church to which they belong. And of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d be able to throw Nightwing and the others off his trail with the books as a red herring, because he had total control of where he brought them and how he reacted to what they found. He knew they’d be looking for Norman. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> knew, and Tim </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s about to cost him his life. It’s got him standing here on a box with a noose around his neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, okay. Breathe. Just breathe. There has to be a way out. There’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>a way out, always another choice, and if there isn’t, he can make one. He’s done the impossible a thousand times before — what’s to stop him now? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Other than, y’know, the psycho in front of him and the noose around his neck. Other than that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, options. He needs options. Tim remembers when he was a child and he first came across the idea of the sealed room mystery: a murder takes place in a room that’s locked from the inside. There is no killer inside the room, only the body of the victim. It’s impossible, always, but it isn’t, never, because there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>options. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Five basic options: </span>
</p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li><span>The room is locked using a mechanism or a setup that allows the culprit to operate it from the outside — the door with an interior lock is sealed from outside the room.</span></li>
<li><span>There’s an exit other than the locked door that renders the room unsealed — it’s effectively not locked at all, because there’s another way out.</span></li>
<li><span>The room is never actually sealed, but only made to look as if it had been when the murder happened — a ruse, a trick, anything that fools the viewer even though the door is unlocked when they find it and has been the whole time.</span></li>
<li><span>The culprit is still inside the room, alive and invisible — hidden or biding their time, and when the locked door is opened, they join the group unseen and act as if they, too, have just discovered the room.</span></li>
<li><span>The culprit is still inside the room, in plain sight — the culprit and the victim are the same person. Suicide, committed after locking the door from the inside.</span></li>
</ol><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s one-two-three-four-five options to make the impossible possible. Tim has always been able to do one better. So why can’t he come up with anything? Why can’t he </span>
  <em>
    <span>think?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fingers snap beside his ear, sending a wailing ring reverberating around his brain. Right. Head wound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know you’re awake.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim swallows hard, throat bobbing against the noose, and lifts his head, schooling his features into the most venomous glare he can muster. He says nothing; he needs to know exactly what he’s up against.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole is standing in front of him, stance wide and hands in his pants pockets. His face is twisted into a caricature of malice, lips pulled into a snarl and piercing eyes glimmering with some kind of violent intent, but also with pride, with satisfaction, and now Tim understands what he’d been unable to identify in the man’s eyes before: hatred. Raw and unadulterated, unlike any he’s ever seen. This, somehow, is personal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs a laugh around his tongue, clumsy and uncooperative between his teeth. “If looks could kill.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad they cannot,” Poole says, voice even and flat, which is definitely going in Tim’s book as </span>
  <em>
    <span>creepier than maniacal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“You deserve the traditional death of your people, after all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim knows his mind is working slowly right now, but that sounds like it wouldn’t make any sense regardless. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>people?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” the pastor says, as if he were discussing the weather with a stranger. “You will die the death of a witch, as your ancestors did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know I’m, like, just a guy, right? Like, I’m just kind of here not doing anything?” Tim has decided to go the route of shit-talking his captor — also known as </span>
  <em>
    <span>pulling a Jason. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s a fucking stupid idea. He expects a slap or something, but it doesn’t come. What comes is worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think of communing with ghosts as </span>
  <em>
    <span>not doing anything.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks, lips twitching open ever so slightly before he can force his face to stay even, but it doesn’t even register with him. His brain is too busy short-circuiting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is impossible. It’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s absolutely no goddamn way that Poole knows about the ghosts. Right? How the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>does he know about the ghosts?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tiny movement of Tim’s mouth must’ve been enough, because Poole gives a small smile and a confirming nod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim huffs in an effort to swallow the shake of his voice, blinks in the hopes that it might clear his tunneling vision. He has to answer. If he doesn’t, Poole will take it as a confirmation. But what the fuck can he possibly say? Tim can lie to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batman </span>
  </em>
  <span>no problem</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but somehow this pastor seems like he’ll be able to call him on it if he hides the truth right now. It feels like the blue of those eyes is staring straight through him, stabbing through his ribs and strangling something in his chest. It hurts, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but Tim can’t do anything about it, can’t move from where the pastor has him pinned and leashed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dude, what are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>on?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He decides to say, and it hits the right inflection even though Tim can barely even hold onto his thoughts. He’s losing lucidity too rapidly for this conversation to go on much longer; with every passing moment, he’s losing his chance to escape. But he can’t… if he can’t get his brain to work, then how the hell is he going to form a plan? He needs help. He needs… he needs…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Backup.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Backup. He called for backup. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The blood trickling down the side of his skull has changed paths now that he’s managed to lift his head upright, and he feels the warmth over his ear and the slight static that crackles when the liquid drips in around his comm, when it gets past the seal the metal has against his cartilage and starts making him feel like half his head is underwater. But for once it makes him want to grin, because his comm is </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he remembers the sound of the beep going off, the sound that would call his brothers to him for help.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’re coming to help. They’re on their way. He just needs to give them time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His scattered fragments of options narrow down to one: </span>
  <em>
    <span>stall. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If there’s one thing the Jason Method of talking to captors is good for, it’s stalling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>nothing, young man,” Poole says with disgust, still unmoving in front of Tim. “Such a thing is unbecoming of the Saved.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t sound like it.” Tim huffs again, managing to iron the slur out of his voice, at least for now. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but witches aren’t real like that, and they never were. There’s a reason we stopped executing people. They’re just pagans and wiccans, man, and we actually have a thing called </span>
  <em>
    <span>freedom of religion</span>
  </em>
  <span> here. You’d think a pastor would know that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and that reason is that people these days are foolish and cowardly.” The man tilts his head down with a smile. “But I am not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You sure about that? This doesn’t seem like a fair fight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole just keeps smiling warmly. “You’re lucky that this building has a sprinkler system,” he says. There’s something wicked twinkling in his eye. “I know my counterparts in Europe were more fond of burning your kind at stake. I would’ve been happy to take a page from their book.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim feels a ball of nausea roll through his stomach, whether it be from the head wound or from the idea of fire boiling his body and filling his lungs with smoke, the image of his brothers finding his charred remains too late. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep stalling. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He rolls his eyes even though it makes his skull ache more. “And what exactly brought you to the brilliant conclusion that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>a witch?” He snorts out the last word, makes it sound ridiculous, but he honestly fears the answer to his question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hal did not get caught,” Poole says. Is that really such a fact? “The only way anybody possibly could have identified him would be for them to have seen him commit his crimes in person. And that’s impossible, you see, because everyone who saw him is dead. But that’s never stopped you, has it?” He takes a few slow steps over to Tim, smiling the same way he has been, the way that makes Tim want to lash out with kicks and punches until it’s gone. “I know you see the spirits of the departed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you do. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, Red Robin. I’m a prophet of the Lord, am I not?” Tim frowns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>certainly hadn’t seen the pastor referred to as a prophet; is the guy self-declared or did Tim miss that, too? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I watch over the spirits of those that had once been under my care, those who had once worshipped at my side. I see through their eyes, if I must, to guide them. How else would I know so much about you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Timothy?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim feels like a weight has just been dropped on his skull, feels like the noose has been pulled taught around his throat. There’s no </span>
  <em>
    <span>way, there’s no fucking way, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he keeps saying that, doesn’t he? This man somehow knows him, knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but there’s no way to access that information, no way except—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except to be told by Tim himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The spirits of those who had once worshipped at my side… I see through their eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s the church my Mamá used to drag me to on Sundays!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Coincidences aren’t fucking real, are they?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shit. Shit shit </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco. Of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. He can feel pain and tears prickling behind them, pulling at the nerves and further constructing his heart. It hurts. Everything hurts and for the first time in a long time, he just wants this all to be over. He just wants the pain to stop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d thought he was safe with the ghosts. He’d thought it would be okay to tell Francisco his name, his plans, his evidence on his cases. How could he have though that he was the only one who’d known they were there? How could he have been so </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Practically everyone he knows exists far from the range of what’s supposed to be possible: his best friends are a flying alien and a supersonic kid from the future, not one but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>of his siblings have died and been resurrected, and Tim himself is basically a medium on steroids. How could he </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>think that </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>is outside the realm of reality? How could he let this happen?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The child doesn’t know I’m watching, of course,” Poole muses, seemingly oblivious to Tim’s breakdown. “But I get my information nonetheless. He is a fool not to return to the Lord’s care. There is peace and salvation for him in the afterlife and yet he squanders it spending time on this earth.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re using him,” Tim spits out, unable to maintain the charade any longer. “You’re forcing him to do things he isn’t aware of.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am,” the pastor replies kindly, almost sadly. “But it’s for the greater good. I know better than to think he would go along with my ideas if I asked him, so I simply don’t ask. Once all witches are exterminated, I won’t need his assistance anymore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim snarls, feels it curl low in his throat around the pain of the rope. “And what, you aren’t a witch? You talk to the ghosts, but you’re exempt from execution?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>witch, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you abomination,” Poole snaps, and Tim feels the tiniest shred of satisfaction at finally hearing some anger in his voice. The man hmphs and straightens. “I am a </span>
  <em>
    <span>prophet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk </span>
  </em>
  <span>to the ghosts; I am blessed by God with the duty of guiding them. I merely peer through their eyes. I do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>sin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I am not a construct of the devil, unlike you and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The words are sharp, laced with venom, but they don’t hurt at all. Rather, they make Tim want to laugh, even after all of this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Listen, old man, I might be able to talk to ghosts, but I’m sure as hell not commuting with Satan or whatever it is you think witches do. I’m Jewish, asshole, we don’t believe in the guy like you do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now </span>
  </em>
  <span>the punch comes, and it lands right on top of his preexisting head wound. His vision floods white and his skull pulses with electricity or something like it, something that renders him unable to see clearly and even less able to hold onto thoughts. He almost chokes. He can’t tell if it’s the noose or his tongue that does it. Blood runs faster into his ear and down his neck. He can hear his heart beating in it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep thinking you’re funny, witch boy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s gonna go ahead and ignore that. He’s gone the Jason route, after all. Thinking you’re funny is half the battle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the corner of Tim’s eye, something moves, something standing in the doorway of the bedroom. It has blonde curly hair and brown eyes and Tim knows there’s an unusual tattoo under the sleeve of that jacket. The figure looms over a copy of itself, a mirror image with the head turned the wrong way. Tim swallows. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why did you kill Hal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words are slurred, difficult to understand, but the figure’s head snaps up nonetheless. Poole doesn’t react. Tim tries not to, but he isn’t very aware of his body anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole is back to smiling warmly. It makes Tim’s skin crawl. Norman’s ghost walks slowly out into the room, moves around the perimeter and in front of the pastor, who doesn’t even seem to notice. “Unfortunately a separation of church and state means that the courts won’t understand his reasoning for killing those witches. They won’t understand that he did the right thing, and he won’t understand why they’re against him. So I decided to reward him early. He’s with God now; the afterlife has infinite peace for someone brave as him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes narrow. As little as he’s catching right now, he knows that Poole can’t see Norman’s ghost. Can he not see any ghosts? But then how did he see through Francisco’s eyes? If Poole can’t see ghosts, it’s impossible for Francisco to have betrayed Tim by telling the guy his secrets directly; Poole can’t even hear him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I… he…” Norman mumbles, looking helplessly at his hands. He suddenly rushes forward and tries to untie Tim, to help lower him down, but his form just goes straight through the boy, who can’t suppress a small shiver at the familiar cold in his bones. “Why can’t I help you? He… I didn’t… I believed him, I thought I would… I thought…” He looks pleadingly at Tim, who can’t look back. “Aren’t I supposed to go to heaven?” His voice is small and fractured, and god, this guy has no idea what he got himself into before he died. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was vulnerable. A vulnerable, lonely man with nothing in his life who turned to God for help, and all he got for it was Poole, who took advantage of his innocence and faith and his sadness and his confusion and twisted them into something exploitable, into something he could use to convince someone to kill. He convinced him that it was the right thing to do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This isn’t Hal Norman’s fault. Oh, he’s not exempt of blame, not by a long shot, but his own tragedy plays into this case, too. Tim overlooked that. And Hal is dead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So much for </span>
  <em>
    <span>no more victims. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You told him that the rumor about the witch rooms was true,” Tim croaks, ignoring the black spots dancing in his vision. Norman startles and looks from Tim to Poole and back again, hands stilling as he backs up a few steps. “You groomed him, gave him all the tools and information, primed him to do your dirty work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then gave him a few nudges in the right direction,” Poole finishes with a proud smile that Tim wants to rip off his face. “It didn’t take much; he wanted nothing more than to be saved, so I offered him salvation.” Norman blinks at Tim, turns to Poole, and vanishes. He must be crossing over to the Other side now that he understands what he’s done. Christ. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In exchange for the murders.” Tim lets his head hang a little heavier. He just… he can’t support it anymore. The blackness is marching in from the edges of his vision. He knows he doesn’t have much time before he passes out and hangs. He’ll die just like Friswid, won’t he? Huh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Correct. Well done, boy. And now there are only a few witches left in the city. Some here and there, scattered, the two unconscious in the bedroom’s closet…” Tim’s eyes widen with hope. The couple is here? They’re still alive? They’re… are they— “...And, of course, you, right here. And still you breathe.” Poole’s nose wrinkles in disgust, but his lips peel back into a feral smile. “Let’s change that, shall we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Time’s up. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole punts the box out from under him in one swift kick, and suddenly Tim’s lungs can’t expand, can’t fill with air, air, </span>
  <em>
    <span>air, why is there no air? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He writhes against whatever is holding him, grating painfully against the skin of his neck, burning hot and stinging. He tastes copper in his mouth, sees red in his eyes, but that doesn’t make sense, nothing makes sense because he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t do anything but gape his mouth open and closed, fight against his own body and listen to his racing, thready heartbeat and the wheezing click of his trachea failing. He’s hot. He’s burning. Where’s the ice? Normally there’s ice in his bones, crawling into his stomach, freezing around his cells, but now he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>burning </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t move, can’t think, can’t… can’t… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s body slows down, stops struggling save for little twitches here and there. His chest rattles and shakes, but there’s nothing, no air to pull into his lungs, no ice to melt away, nobody to help him, and he wonders if this time he’ll die and stay dead. He wonders if he’ll become a ghost the same as the others, if his ability will end up being for naught in the end. He wonders if this is how it was always supposed to be, starting seventeen years ago with a stillbirth in the delivery room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wonders how he’ll be able to face Bolanle. How he’ll be able to look her in the eye and tell her that he’d broken his promise, that he hadn’t caught the monster man and stopped him from hurting anyone else. Will he see her on the Other side? Will she remember him? Will anybody?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s heart is slowing down now — he can hear it. He can hear his heartbeat, and his eyelashes fluttering and his eyes rolling, but all of a sudden he can hear other things, too, distantly, covered by fog, but he hears them. The sound of a door slamming open, cracking against a wall and creaking on old hinges. Garbled voices, panicky the way they had been just days ago in a different apartment, overlapping and confusing. The sound of an animalistic snarl — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Titus? — </span>
  </em>
  <span>and of feet leaping off the floor. The sound of weapons meeting flesh, comforting in the oddest way. Boots pelting the ground, shaky breathing approaching him, the familiar </span>
  <em>
    <span>shing </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a katana being removed from a sheath, and—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he’s falling. It feels like forever, but it’s no more than a quarter of a second. It’s nothing and it’s everything because he’s falling and he hears the air whooshing past his good ear, mingling in disorienting fashion with the one that remains under bloody water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lands an instant later, hits something that immediately moves to cradle his back, but the impact is enough to remind him to breathe. So he does. His mouth falls open and his head tilts back as he drags a ragged breath into his lungs, forces it back out again, and takes another, and another, and another, and then he finally lets his eyes roll closed to the sounds of frantic voices above him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gets less than five seconds of rest before there’s something patting his face insistently, tone jumpy and high, and he has to turn his good ear to the sound and let himself adjust as the ringing falls away and the noise sharpens into a very familiar voice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Red Robin?” More pats to his face, firm but gentle, careful to stay on the uninjured side. Voice shaking and sharp, but small, smaller than it’s supposed to be. “Red, wake up. You are required to wake up!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, lay off him, D,” says another familiar voice, but also different, because it usually isn’t so gentle. The thing cradling his back shifts slightly, pulls him flush against a wall that seems too warm and forgiving to actually be a wall, which means he’s probably being held against someone’s chest. His head is supported against it, too, and he can feel the soft rise and fall of the person’s breath, and it all feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he just wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleep, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but every instinct in his body is telling him that he can’t, that there’s something he has to be doing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a quiet sigh from his side, and two small hands grasp one of his, clutching the fingers tightly but carefully. The voice is tiny, whispered and nearly inaudible, but it’s there. “Please wake up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, hell no. He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>letting that voice sound so scared on his account.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a quiet breath that aches like hell in his destroyed throat, Tim finally manages to slide his eyes open. “...Dami…?” He croaks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hands don’t drop his, but Damian is inside his field of view in an instant, eyes blown huge and perfectly round. The recognition in the kid’s eyes, the way they light up, is totally worth waking up for. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Timothy,” he breathes, a small, awed smile on his face. Damn, it must’ve been really bad if Damian isn’t even trying to hide his emotions. What the hell is going—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah. Poole. Fuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim jerks and tries to get upright, but pain flares in his throat and his skull and he finds the room swaying around him in a dizzying circle. “Easy, Timbo,” Jason says softly when it settles. Ah, so he’s the one playing the role of </span>
  <em>
    <span>chair </span>
  </em>
  <span>this evening. “Everything is okay. Dickie’s got the creep sedated and tied up outside for the cops — he’ll be here any second, he’s just helping those ladies get to safety.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim lets the information process, then sighs, slumping down into Jason’s hold. Damian clutches his hand tighter, holding it to his chest. The feeling of a strong heartbeat beneath the Robin insignia makes Tim relax more, becoming near boneless in his brother’s arms. The man just smiles and holds him a little closer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are footsteps rapidly approaching the door, so light they’re barely audible, but that still makes them far louder than they usually are. A black and blue flash bursts into the room and darts towards them, not slowing down even as he speaks. “Is he— Tim!” Dick jolts the last few feet even faster upon seeing open eyes and drops to his knees beside Tim’s head just after Damian scoots over  to make room for him, in the spot where he will inevitably end up because he’s in Big Brother mode. His hands cup Tim’s face with a butterfly touch, so gentle that he doesn’t even feel a pinch from his wounds. Still, Tim knows that Dick is also using the position to take his pulse as he searches his eyes and catalogues his injuries. He’s not subtle about it. Whatever he finds, he seems satisfied, because he sighs in relief and leans down to press a kiss to Tim’s forehead. “Jesus Christ, Timmy,” he huffs, pulling back and looking him in the eye. “You trying to give us all heart attacks?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim can’t help the exhausted smile that spreads across his face, and once again, he doesn’t want to. Damian pouts. “Only you would wind up in this situation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smiles wider. He’s not wrong.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck even happened?” Jason mumbles, looking off in the direction of Hal Norman’s body. Dick must have covered it with a sheet or something, because Tim can’t feel the state of those blank eyes on him anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim lifts one hand and makes eye contact with Jason, who understands. </span>
  <b>Pastor behind everything, </b>
  <span>he signs carefully. </span>
  <b>N-O-R-M-A-N groomed. About ghosts knows. About identity knows. Information stolen from F-R-A-N-C-I-S-C-O. Ghost not at fault. Pastor witch hanged. Me.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim watches his brothers as they blink, process, and as all their faces contort with rage. A moment later, the anger is dissipating, burning out into something they can focus on later. “Okay. Okay,” Dick says, trying to get himself under control. “We’ll worry about all that later. Right now we need to get you home.” He brushes a thumb softly over Tim’s cheekbone — it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>heaven — </span>
  </em>
  <span>and looks to his other siblings. “Get up to the roof and wait for me. The Commissioner is coming to pick this freak up himself; I’m gonna make sure he gets briefed about the identity situation. I won’t say anything about the ghosts, don’t worry,” he adds to Tim, who can just offer him a smile as exhaustion steadily overcomes him. The thumb brushes over his cheekbone again, even gentler this time, even more loving. Dick presses another kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right there,” he says, and he disappears out the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Timmers,” Jason says, gingerly getting to his feet without so much as jostling Tim’s weary form. Damian is still holding his hand, though he has to shift to using one instead of both so that he can pick up his discarded katana and guide the three of them out the door. “Let’s get you home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yeah, alright. That sounds pretty fucking good to Tim. He has a new cutting board to test out, after all.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All that's left is the epilogue :)</p><p>💛, Blue</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Memento Mori</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Epilogue.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I MADE IT BEFORE I LEFT ON MY TRIP BITCHES I HAVE 4% BATTERY AND I WROTE THIS ON THE PLANE SEE YALL IN A MONTH</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tim shouldn’t be here. He knows that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the same time, he has to do this. He made a promise, and he has to follow through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The iron sign arching above the stone entryway is a little rusted, a little decrepit, but the space beyond is well-tended, grass mowed and flowers fresh. It’s not exactly picturesque, but it’s nice, at least. Peaceful. He can’t bring himself to go in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little Minnie Mouse plush feels cold in his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“T?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim takes a moment to gather himself. He hasn’t seen Francisco in the three weeks since the day they took down Poole; he was only able to trust that word of Red Robin’s injury would make its way through the ghost community. Bruce had benched him to leave time for his throat and head to heal, and for once, Tim doesn’t mind so much. He’s spent most of that time at the manor, and the third week in Kansas at the Kent farm hanging out with Kon and Bart. He’s glad they were there, glad he was able to see them. It felt… normal. Real. He didn’t tell them about the ghosts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Does that make him a bad friend? It’s dishonest, but… no. It’s his decision to tell them, if and when. They’ll be understanding; they always are. Hell, they’ll probably commend him for making a decision that focuses on himself for once. Losers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce hadn’t demanded an explanation, and the boys hadn’t given him one. In essence, they had given him the exact same rundown that they had given the police; that they found the Friswid connection between the murder locations, traced it to the church, and found Norman and Poole from there. They talked about it as if it were open and shut, as if Poole was simply insane and had decided that the Bats were witches, so he tried to hang the first one he found. They ironed it out ahead of time. More than anything, Bruce was just glad to have his kids home alive. They had all gathered in a living room and watched a movie together that night, though Tim had to wear a blindfold and the volume had to be low. But it had been okay. Better than okay, because Tim had gotten to fall asleep with his head in his dad’s lap, with gentle fingers carding through his hair and listening to a fond hum and a strong heartbeat in Bruce’s chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s going to tell Bruce eventually. Just… not right now. He needs a little more time. His brothers have been supportive of that, so he thinks it’s probably a good idea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Today might not be such a good idea, but he needs to do it all the same. This is a new wrinkle, though. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a quiet breath, Tim turns around, giving his friend a smile. The bruises have faded almost completely, but he’s brought a scarf with him just in case someone sees him. Ghosts don’t really count, though. “Hey, Cisco.” His voice is barely scratchy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The boy’s eyes drop to his neck and his face turns pained. A moment later, he meets Tim’s gaze, smiling lightly. “So the pastor, huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim grimaces. “Yeah. Did you…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco swallows, but nods. “I knew him, yeah. Not well, but I knew him.” He glares at the ground. “The fucker is lucky he’s locked up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I’m lucky Martian Manhunter removed my identity from his memories, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim wants to say, but he doesn’t. What happened isn’t Francisco’s fault; he doesn’t deserve the guilt of feeling like it is. He didn’t know that Poole was in his head, and now that Tim’s brothers managed to find the thing that allowed him to get there in the first place, he’ll never have to worry about it again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Poole doesn’t see the ghosts. He’s no prophet, either. He just stole a pair of binoculars that belonged to one John Constantine — a pair that sees through the eyes of </span>
  <em>
    <span>departed friends, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or ghosts that had been known to the viewer in life</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Those binoculars are back with Constantine now. And he owes Tim another favor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim nods, lips pursed. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco gives him a genuine, if small, smile. “’S okay. At least my Mamá isn’t going to that church anymore.” He shifts and shoves his hands into his pockets. “So. Why torture yourself?” He says, gesturing up at the iron sign: </span>
  <em>
    <span>West Gotham Cemetery. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“There’s ghosts everywhere here, man.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim sighs, glancing at the little plush toy in his hands. He holds it up slightly for his friend to see. “Just… visiting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Francisco’s face softens. “Oh.” He clicks his tongue. “Sometimes I think you’re a bit too nice for your own good, Ouija Boy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim snorts quietly. “Yeah. Dick says the same thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll leave you to it. You deserve your time.” Francisco gives him another smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim returns it. “Thanks, kid. See you around.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hopefully at Denny’s,” the boy says, and he disappears with a laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim nods to the empty space. He swallows and steps through the entrance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t take him long to find the grave he’s looking for. Mother and daughter buried beside each other in a far corner of the lot, given some semblance of privacy from an oak tree nearby. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rectangular plot is tiny. The soil is barely settled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim kneels down in front of the grave, his heart in his throat. His voice is hushed, careful, but his hands are shaking. “Hey, Bolanle. I came to visit. Brought you a present.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On top of the plot, a little girl appears. Huge brown eyes and thick curls and a pink polka-dot bow in her hair. A grin stretches across her face; for the first time, Tim notices that there are gaps in her mouth. She’s missing some teeth — baby teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Mister Red!” She chirps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim looks her in the eye. “Hey, kiddo. How are you doing?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sways deliberately on her feet, sticks her hand in her mouth — looks exactly the same as the first time Tim had seen her. “I’m good. The New Place has lots of ice cream!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim smiles and has to force it not to wobble. He likes her term for the Other side. “I bet it does. Here, I brought this for you.” He places the small Minnie Mouse toy on top of her grave, and instantly a copy of it appears in her arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She squeals excitedly. “Thank you, Mister Red!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Hey, I have to tell you something.” His voice holds, stays even and light for now. She gives him a quizzical look and he swallows hard. He’s thought about this a lot these past few weeks, and he’s decided that he needs to tell her. There’s no other way; he’d rather her know and be prepared than end up startled by him. “The monster man… he wasn’t what we thought he was. He was bad, and he did very bad things, and no matter what he shouldn’t have done them. But someone else was helping him do those things; a witch man. He tricked the monster man and hurt him. And now the monster man is in the New Place.” He takes in her confused expression carefully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s in the New Place?” She mumbles, clutching at her toy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim bites his lip. “Yes. Which means you might see him some time by accident. You don’t ever have to talk to him, and if you see him you can scream and run away and anything you want, but sometimes you might see him. You need to know so that you don’t get startled.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little girl blinks at him. “Oh.” She looks down, studying first her shoes, then the doll in her hands. Her face scrunches up in thought. And then…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I forgive him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim’s eyes go wide before he can do anything to stop them. “You… do?” He says carefully.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nods, thoughtful and certain. “He doesn’t deserve to always be a monster man. Maybe one day, if I forgive him, he can learn to be a normal man.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jesus Christ, this kid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim blinks back the rolling sting in his eyes. “You… you know that isn’t your job, Bolanle. You don’t have to forgive him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have to,” She says, smiling knowingly. “I want to. My mama says it’ll help me feel better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jesus. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s… that’s good. Keep doing things that make you feel better, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She grins, squeezes the small toy to her chest with chubby hands. “Okay, Mister Red. Will you come back sometime?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He manages a smile. “Sure, kiddo. I’ll come back. I have a friend you should meet — he can help you get all sorted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little girl beams at him, gap-toothed and brilliant. “Okay! That sounds fun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It will be. Bye, Bolanle. Enjoy your day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Mister Red!” She crows, and she vanishes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tears start before Tim even makes it past the entrance. He dodges shambling ghosts at their graves as he moves, faster and faster, darting his way between names and epitaphs until he finally bursts out through the iron archway. He breathes heavily, tears streaming down his face, and presses his back against the stone wall, sliding down until he’s sitting in a ball outside the cemetery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was just a little girl. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>just a little girl, and she can just… she can forgive her murderer, just like that. Not because it’ll help him, necessarily, but because it’s healthy for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>six.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Would Tim’s life be better if he forgave those who wronged him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their family is one that came together over grief and grudges. They’ve healed some along the way, yes, but the work they do is still based in the idea that they can never do enough, that they can never save enough people, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>aren’t enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If… if they forgave. Forgave for their own sakes. Would that help? Would they move on? Would they be able to work in the shadows without falling into the darkness?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The impossible is possible, isn’t it? That’s what he’s sure of. So… could they really get better, all of them? Could they really heal? Could they really be okay someday, if only they forgave? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Others. And themselves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Could they?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A car pulls up beside him, a black Audi that Tim recognizes. The door opens. Closes. Legs are in front of him, then a face. A white streak of hair, and a hand in his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Timbo. Come on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets Jason pull him to his feet, lets him manhandle him into the backseat of the car. He lets him and Damian sit closer to him than they normally would. He lets Dick turn on quiet music as they drive. They pull up to his secret garage and he mumbles out the passcode, and when they’re inside, he lets Damian gently tug him from the car by his hand and guide him up the stairs to his apartment. He lets Jason choose the first episode of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Twilight Zone </span>
  </em>
  <span>from his iTunes library. He lets Dick tip him over and lay Tim’s head in his older brother’s lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Damian sits on the floor, his head tilted back against Tim’s torso on the couch, a firm reminder of his presence. Dick brushes long, gentle fingers through his hair, humming quietly every now and then. Jason pokes food at him and makes stupid commentary on the show, mocking the idiots who run headlong into obviously bad situations. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t mention how they found him. They just… stay. Tim’s tears slow to a stop by the end of the first episode. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the end of the third episode, he’s able to smile. By the end of the sixth, he’s able to eat the food Jason is shoving at him. By the end of the tenth, he’s able to laugh just as loud and hard as his brothers, who are here and around him and alive, and maybe everything really will be okay one day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Timothy Drake was a stillborn baby who grew up alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>These days, he’s glad that’s all changed.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974581">Honorary bird</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriascend/pseuds/Iriascend">Iriascend</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
</html>